Details
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Taking place after the events of Robin Year One, The dynamic duo are in midst of delicate operations to shut down the narcotic businesses of crimelord Luciano Fognini. Although working together with renewed fluidity, Batman still finds himself concerned..
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I have been fascinated by Batman comics for many years and even more fascinated by the art of writing fiction. Although I possess a vast portfolio of stories, I have never yet had the courage to publish one for public scorn. With this, that will change...**

**Enjoy and Review if worthy of such accolades.**

**Details**

Fighting at close quarters is, in its own way, something of an art form. The fluidity with which one must move in order to both defend and attack is a difficult balance. A game of inches, my instructor used to say, how many do you have to work with? The answer in this case would be, not many. Three of them have closed me down into the smallest of spaces. All of them are armed. This situation would seem suggest serious thinking is in order. That would be a mistake. Thinking whilst fighting for your life is a sign of desperation and an unwelcome distraction. So I do not think; I react. An opening appears before long and is immediately exploited. I land a firm right hook before ducking an attempt to pistol whip me. Another opening. I sweep away both legs before reflecting another telegraphed blow from above. By now, I am in full-flow. In less than ten further movements, all three are disarmed and, following another sequence of five movements, all of them are down on the floor. I count one broken arm amongst them and even that was merely a result of an awkward fall rather than needless brutality.

My partner is doubled over in the next room with two thugs moaning listlessly at his feet. He looks up, meets my gaze and then gestures to the broken window behind him. I know immediately one got away. The lack of noise points to a clean escape. It is only a temporary reprieve for the runaway. We will find him, one way or another. Meanwhile, we have five potential talkers in our possession. Interrogation is short-lived; all of them are ready to sing. We get a name and address inside of five minutes. Another minute and we're gone into the night, back on the hunt.

"Asshole caught me with a knuckle duster. Who the hell uses a knuckle duster?" Robin says between gritted teeth as we drive through the streets. His language is inappropriate. I understand his dismay at misreading the blow but say nothing. I am certain he will fill the silence momentarily.

"I think he fractured a couple of ribs. I guess I'm not going on the track tomorrow. I could've won that race you know, easily." I still say nothing. I just note the bitter disappointment lacing his words. I hear a sharp intake of breath as he re-assesses his own injury. "Okay, the adrenaline's wearing off. This feels like it's on fire." I note the position of his hands. They are firmly pressed against his left side. We are closing in on the address supplied to us.

"You know the worst part is gonna be when we get back home. Alfred's gonna try and ease me out of the car and I'm gonna scream like a girl." That particular premonition seems to frustrate him more than the treatment of the injury itself which I know is quite scream-provoking. I have learned with some difficulty that teenage boys are far less embarrassed by appearing weak if they inform before the event. I am uncomfortable saying nothing, but my partner prefers it that way. We have arrived at the address. "If you see this guy who's about six-and-a-half feet tall with a stupid little beard and an impossible set of shoulders, watch out for his right hook to the body." Robin calls to me as I leave the car and land on the rooftop. Now is the time for serious thinking.

The roof of this inauspicious warehouse is most likely nothing more than tin sheeting. My boots will muffle the majority of the sound, but I must tread carefully. Criminals do not take kindly to unannounced noise. The process is slow, but I navigate my way to a dusty skylight. One look at the darkened floor below and I know they've been alerted to my presence. The element of surprise is partially gone. I note that the moon is quarter-waning and therefore I am unable to be silhouetted against. It is somewhat of a saving grace. My switch to thermal imaging reveals something I was not prepared for. A rough guess informs me that there are approximately fifty persons in the warehouse, all of them armed with weapon systems. This building and its patrons are no longer a mere link in a long chain, but the end product itself. The drug shipment is here, in this warehouse, probably awaiting transportation to the docks. The number of personnel on guard suggests they are planning to move tonight, maybe even in the next few minutes. I have a decision to make.

My supplies of CS gas and contained explosives are severely limited. I estimate on my own, I would be lucky to disable twenty of them. That however is the odds on a frontal assault. With correct entry to the building and a generous assessment of the ground layout, plus a viable escape route, sabotage of the shipment is a highly lucrative option to consider. Silent takedown of each individual is not viable, nor is a meld of both plans. I spot the security installations and motion sensors a moment later and realize the futility of the effort. My portable jamming devices possess too small a disruptive field to make a hole in the sensor network wide enough to allow proper work. Withdrawal is not justified either; some action can be taken. I have now been motionless for twelve minutes.

They have no set patrol patterns, unfortunate but expected. Some have elevated heart rates, but not enough to suggest exploitable tension. I can see no established leader. I can speculate my speed in reaching the warehouse has had some impact on proceedings as the man Robin described is more than likely still on route. He is also a possible candidate for leadership of this operation, acting under the main boss Luciano Fognini. I still understand these are just theories and have yet to be proven accurate. I must act now.

A subtle tweak of my jamming device's mechanics allows me to slightly boost the power. I can extend the disruptive field by nearly a metre. This is imperative to what I am about to attempt. I gain a shaky entrance to the warehouse via a loose sheet and gently lower myself through the narrow gap. I keep my knees tight against my chest whilst scanning the immediate environment beneath me. Roof struts are directly under my feet, six to seven feet of drop at best. My imaging scans reveal one strategically placed camera looking directly onto the strut I intend to land on. I spot another crossing the other's field of vision. That particular camera is on the other side of the warehouse, a distance of three hundred or so metres from my current position. A cursory glance down to the personnel shows these camera feeds are being monitored. With a delicate twist of my body and a deft acrobatic manoeuvre, I manage to stick the improved device next to the camera. I wait.

The individual monitoring the feeds notices the breakdown and taps the screen. In a moment I have landed on the strut and retrieved the device. I am directly beneath the camera. The monitor of the feeds nods in approval. The intersecting camera is looking directly at my position, but the monitor does not notice my presence. I hang off the strut, dangling precariously above the heavy drop. The monitor is contained within a small room...with no roofing. My skills were not briefed to these people. Placing the device on my belt, I drop.

The monitor is disabled and unconscious before he can utter a word. He has a radio device in his ear. Placing the jamming device on the control panel impairs the function of the whole security system. I am free of electronic tagging. The next sequence of events is clinical. All individuals with radio links find their frequency scrambled. I detect a rise in adrenal levels. I leave the control room and sit in wait. My position is shaky at best. I am hoping they become agitated enough to switch on the lights. I test them by executing some very vocal takedowns of those individuals on the fringe of the perimeter. As intended, they switch on the lights and create dozens of shadows.

I have strung one up from a strut with the aid of my grappling hook and left him purposely conscious to attract attention. Their lack of discipline is welcomed as a sizable crowd gathers beneath the unfortunate. From my new position in the shadow of a large wall of packing crates I count the numbers. 12. I had hoped for more. A gentle roll of self-detonating capsules is undetected, landing in their centre without any fanfare. The ensuing theatrical explosion shakes them to action, but the gas is too quick to disperse. Moments later they are engulfed in a harsh, choking white cloud as the CS gas takes them. Donning a respirator, I enter the expanding mist and perform a series of nerve pinches to lessen their number. The approach of footsteps and random gunfire limits my time to work. I disable seven of the twelve before retreating to my previous position. I hear screaming and know my chances are high.

I anticipate everyone is looking up to the ceiling, expecting me to cut through the cloud and escape. Clinging to this belief, I re-enter the gas cloud. Using all my available batarangs and space, I negate a further seven before my cover is depleted due to the size of the building. I again fall back to the shadows and wait. The man Robin described finally arrived at the very height of the chaos and panic I have orchestrated. His expression says it all. Not only is this man clearly the leader, he too is also bewildered by the scene. His attempts at regaining order fall flat. He is inexperienced. I can use that to great effect. He does not fold the men back into a defensive position but does gesture to the packing crates with some urgency. They are riddled with holes from stray fire. I guess the drugs are within these crates. I do not move.

Through the din I hear the wailing of sirens closing. Robin has sent the message to Gordon. The leader hears the ominous sound too and gives the word to scatter. My presence is still felt though. Half of them are raving I'm still here whilst the other half are convinced the oncoming sirens are one of my tricks and wish to call my bluff. The sirens are very close now. The leader is looking ready to flee. I wait as the net closes tighter. The leader flees moments later and I move. I dodge concentrated fire on my position before casting the last of my CS gas capsules in their general direction. Their reaction times have improved. They clear the cloud in record time. But while they run only minimal fire is put down, a common battlefield error. I grab the leader, avoid his right hook and put him down. The screen between us and the others is slight at best, but I use it. My viable exit point is an unstable section of the wall to my immediate left. I throw my own weight and my captive's against the target and brace for the impact. We hit the concrete outside hard, but I avoid dislocating my shoulder. A swarm of police vehicles and armed officers surround the front of the warehouse. Gordon's response time has improved as well. I am confident he can handle the situation now.

I am reluctant to leave my grappling hook attachment behind for forensic purposes, but accept it as inevitability. I cannot re-enter the building at such a crucial juncture. I string the leader up a safe distance from the shoot-out and exit the scene.

"You were gone a hell of a long time, boss." Robin says to me when I get back in the car. I nod in agreement, noting the relief in his voice.

"The situation demanded careful thought." I say judging that to be a fair assessment of what transpired.

"Gordon can contain the situation now?" My partner asks as I fire up the engine. I nod.

"He can."

I am far from satisfied with my actions and feel particularly betrayed by impulsive action on my part. I was close to getting both myself and the leader killed at two separate times. I cannot afford such carelessness in future. I am in silent contemplation the whole ride home. Robin, his injury still upsetting him, is unusually quiet as well. I am somewhat thankful.

Arrival back at base can be described as a turn-over of varying proportions. Depending on Alfred's mood and my own, the transition to civilian routine can be smooth or unkind. Tonight Alfred is in a favourable mood and mine is only slightly soured by news of one serious injury sustained by a GCPD officer. The warehouse has been successfully raided regardless and the suspected leader in custody according to the police scanner and local media outlets covering the scene. Alfred first tends to my partner. Robin was correct and when he is moved, the boy screams at an ear-splitting volume. Alfred, as ever, is unfazed by his reaction. I make a brief appreciation of the car's condition; new tyres are required, but that is all.

While Alfred administers treatment to his frequent patient, I replace my utility belt in the armoury and remove the majority of my Kevlar plating. I instantly feel twenty pounds lighter. Alfred is nearly finished already, a new record I believe. I stand to one side and watch him tie off the gauze around the boy's ribs. His precision is enviable.

"How does that feel, Master Richard?" He asks. The boy nods quickly and Alfred understands his embarrassment; without his tunic, the boy is virtually naked. Alfred gives him a blanket which he snatches at, provoking a sharp yelp. Alfred turns his attention to me.

"Master Bruce?"

I shed my upper body suit and raise my arms so he can assess the extent of my injuries. Dick watches on in fascination. I wince at every slight ache so he does not miss anything. Alfred's analysis is completed swiftly. "Congratulations Master Bruce, you've been shot, twice." There is an uncomfortable silence. I break it.

"But?"

"But they are merely flesh wounds at best. The remainder of your efforts consists almost exclusively of superficial bruising and minor lacerations. Consider yourself fortunate."

It is only now I feel the sting of open wounds on my shoulder and stomach. I glance at the boy. I know he was momentarily frightened he had made yet another costly error. Alfred has no reason to stress him so. My mood sours further and the tension between me and the old man are palpable to the boy as he stitches me up. Long minutes pass. Eventually, Alfred is finished and is quick to leave.

"It is late, young sir; be sure you are in bed within the hour. Breakfast will be served at seven sharp. Will that be all Master Bruce?" I nod and watch him walk back up to the manor. Once he is gone, only the echoes of the cave endless recesses can be heard. We are alone. I turn to the boy. He has adopted an expression of guilt. He feels he should have been in the warehouse with me. He feels he has let me down...again. This is an absurd conclusion that only an adolescent can reach. Perhaps I have been distant these past few months.

"What did Alfred say?" I ask without drawing closer. He shrugs his shoulders without relinquishing his grip on the blanket.

"I'll be off school for a while. He says I need plenty of bed rest. You know, just the usual spiel."

The disappointment is evident in his voice, as is his fear of failure. I nod in agreement of Alfred's findings. "You performed very well tonight, Dick. I am impressed with the improvements you have made in tactical planning and awareness. Well done." I expected the words to sound hollow and cold, but I do believe they sounded uncharacteristically warm and complementary. The boy's bemused smile confirms this; he did not expect praise.

"Thanks. Did you get my guy?"

"I missed his right hook. Great scout." I reply with an appreciative smile. Dick looks curious.

"Was he the head honcho?"

"I believe so. In the event that he is, your performance is even more commendable."

The boy looks suitably happy now, relieved of his self-inflicted burdens. I am glad he is sated. It is important that he feels important. I would refer to his timely radio call to the police if it were not overkill.

"Come on, I'll give you a lift upstairs." I say moving in. Dick is reluctant to accept my offer of help, but quickly knows there are no other painless options. He gingerly raises his arms and I am mindful of his injury. He wraps his arms loosely round my neck and we begin the ascent. The boy is heavier than I remember by maybe as much as twenty pounds. The lactic acid has already pooled in my muscles and there is a burning sensation in my arm as we reach the top. I can feel the boy's heartbeat against my skin. It is slightly elevated. It is possibly because he is facing downwards at the staircase. If I were to fall or lose my balance now, we would both be killed by the drop. I will not do either of those things but Dick senses I am tired. I suppose my steps are laboured as we leave the darkness of the cave for the darkness of the library.

As we cross the parlour and begin up the main staircase, I am aware the boy is now looking directly at my face. He is going to say something so I wait.

"Bruce?"

"Yes, Dick?"

"What was up with you and Alfie in the cave?"

"A difference of opinion."

"But you guys didn't say anything."

"Alfred and I rarely need to speak to understand one another. It is nothing to concern yourself with."

"But it was about me, wasn't it?"

I stop three-quarters of the way up and return his gaze. He looks anxious again. He feels he is causing a rift in the family. He feels that something about his actions is pushing Alfred and me apart. Teenager's minds are so hard to rationalize that I rarely try with Dick. He has mood swings and random fits of temper as well as childish fears and inclinations. I admit my usual strategy involves pawning him off to Alfred because of my inexperience in such matters. Here on this staircase shrouded in the shadow of midnight I must attempt some form of delicate parenting. I must not lie. I must not tell the whole truth. Again a fine balance must be struck. My arm is beyond cramp at this point.

"I don't want to press you with responsibilities you have no obligation to undertake, Dick. In your condition, I was not prepared to take you into that warehouse. Even if you were willing to go, the right thing to do was let you remain in the car. My safety in that warehouse was my responsibility and mine alone. If I were to be shot or killed, it would be my fault and _only_ my fault. I told you that you would be my partner only if you were a good soldier. That meant following my orders without question. I know you want to always support me out on patrol and operations, but you can't. You need to accept that. Alfred should not have made you feel guilty. I was not shot; I was grazed with two stray bullets, not even aimed shots. Your presence would not have prevented it occurring."

The boy appears to nod in acceptance. I believe he understands he is not at fault in the matter. He smiles at me. "Your arm must be killing you right now." He is entirely correct. I estimate the boy weighs 140lbs and I have been carrying him for almost ten minutes. Allowing my arm to extend now would return the muscles to normality by tomorrow. I do not. I smile instead.

"You have a way to go before you become too heavy for me to carry."

"Well, when I'm a lump of concrete like you we can test that theory, huh?"

"I look forward to a new challenge."

"That was almost funny, Bruce. Maybe I'm actually rubbing off on you."

"Perhaps."

Dick is himself again, entirely. I had never truly understood the appeal of children until Dick came to stay with us. I must confess his presence often lightens my mood when I feel nothing can. We are now on the landing and almost upon the boy's room.

"I think I can walk now." Dick says once we are in front of his bedroom door. I try to set him down gently. I hear a sharp intake of breath and know it could have easily been worse. We look at one another. "Thanks for the ride, big man. See you in the morning?" I nod. He opens the door, goes in and then closes the door without looking back. Teenagers. I silently wish him a good night and retire myself until daybreak.


	2. Chapter 2

**Details 2**

I am lost in thought. Something is not right. My mind should be on other things, but I keep going back to the warehouse. The whole scenario was wrong. Gathering intelligence on the shipment was too easy. All the information we correlated in preparation was too readily available. The number of personnel was unnecessary. Luciano Fognini would not risk the success of the operation by placing such an inexperienced person in charge. That person, one Antonio Palazzo, has no priors for matters pertaining to narcotics. It is the wrong fit. The personnel in the warehouse, though properly armed, were not trained and competency levels were unbalanced. Merely reasoning through my doubts leads me to conclude that the shipment I and Gordon disrupted was not intended to succeed. This furthers the possibility Fognini is deliberately leaking information in order to target both myself and Gordon. It is also not inconceivable that Fognini now has knowledge of the response time and manpower of Gordon's unit. He may also have access to GCPD personnel files and be scrutinizing susceptible individuals, looking for weaknesses. My heavy involvement in Gordon's case against Fognini means I am also being watched.

My skills and procedures for dealing with hostile situations will be relayed by at least one of the three men released on bail this morning. Solutions to my battle tactics will no doubt be talked about. I envision sterner resistance, not when, but if I discover another shipment. I am almost resigned to the idea the drugs recovered by Gordon will be nothing more than baby laxative cut with talcum powder or some other combination. Fognini has the real merchandise ready for shipment somewhere in the city. He is waiting for us to make the next move. All this analogy is immaterial at this very moment in time. I am not at home. I have been sat in a board meeting at Wayne Enterprises for close to three hours.

Regardless of my wandering mind, I am not wholly ignorant of what has transpired in this room. Lucius Fox, a man whom I trust with all things corporate, has fought strongly against the merger Santoro Incorporated propositioned us with. While most of the board members are in favour of amalgamating, citing the net capital gain, it is yet to be a unanimous decision. Only Lucius, as vice-chairman, and myself, as chairman and majority shareholder, can approve such a drastic course of action. Although these facts are readily apparent to all present, we all want to be on the same page as it were. My contribution to proceedings has been limited. My injuries notwithstanding, I am still overly fatigued by recent exertions. I am therefore fortunate Lucius is so adept at his role. I must say something though.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," I begin, rising from my seat at the head of the table, "Let me be frank." I pause to look round the room; I have everyone's attention. Excellent.

"Wayne Enterprises is not merely a corporate superpower or a Gotham City landmark. It is my father's legacy. He was not a man to trust lightly and so was particular about whom he allowed to handle day-to-day running of the company. Long before my rise to corporate figurehead, my father selected Mr. Fox to personally handle business matters. He did this, not only because of Mr. Fox's impeccable conduct and sharp business acumen, but also because of something less associated with today's executives; his heart. Mr. Fox is a man who understands what is best, not only for growth and profitability of a business, but also for the people behind it. If he believes that this merger is not in the best interests of this company then I support him and you should too."

The speech is hastily prepared and hearing it makes me wonder how I would fair as a salesman; badly, I think. The board seems unimpressed. I remain standing, already analyzing how to salvage the situation. Then someone claps. I look to make sure it is not Lucius. It is Conrad Harper, head of Mergers and Acquisitions, and the last man I would expect to approve. He is nodding, as if in agreement. When the remainders follow his example, I want to sigh in relief. I am exhausted. I need sleep or I will collapse. I nod my head in gratitude and then sink back down in my chair. Lucius concludes the meeting and I am free to retire to bed. As I get up to leave, Lucius claps me on the back.

"Well done, King Solomon." He says with a grin. I can barely incline my head now. My surge of adrenaline and garbled inspiration coincided at the same time, robbing me of the little energy I had in reserve. I manage to call Alfred. He says he will arrive shortly. I drift…

I remember Alfred waking me in my office. I remember staggering to the car. I remember negotiating the stairs. I remember waking up.

It is night. I shed my custom-tailored suit and fling on my dressing gown. I have yet to see Dick today. The boy is unlikely to be anywhere near his bed despite Alfred's advice. As expected, I find him in the cave. I am pleased to find he is not alone. Alfred is supervising him closely. Neither notices my presence. I must be feeling better. I stand and observe from the shadows for a time.

"Do not strain yourself Master Richard. I am certain Master Bruce will not appreciate waking to find you less convalesced than before. More than that, he will not be pleased with me."

Alfred's wit is not on display. His voice is one of great concern. I see the boy attempting to hold a handstand and share his concern. To hold his body upright, Dick must tighten his abdominals and steady his legs; the nature of his injury makes this almost impossible without further aggravation. I am thankful to note Alfred's position means he is supporting the boy and this is not Dick's try at rehabilitation. I guess the old man is making efforts to keep him happy. Dick is always most contented when performing gymnastics, even when detrimental. The boy emits something between a sigh and a groan. He signals for Alfred to help him down. When he stands up, Dick holds his left side and grits his teeth.

"Sucks." I hear the boy mutter under his breath, "Injury sucks." He is more irritated than in actual pain. I see from his expression that Alfred shares my view; the old man is smiling. From my vantage point I smile too. Dick is tough and stubborn, excellent qualities for our line of work. "How does he do it, Alfred? The guy got shot twice. I don't think I could get up the next day and just go to work if I got shot." Dick suddenly says. His tone suggests exasperation rather than awe. He is frustrated by his limitations and I am interested what advice Alfred will offer him. I wait.

"If I may point out, Sir, he was not shot twice, merely grazed and, in regard to his ability to shrug off such bodily shocks, the practice is not to be admired. Master Bruce is an exception to the widely held belief that intense physical strain and severe mental taxation sustained over prolonged periods of time causes high-blood pressure, nervous breakdowns, heart-attacks, diabetes and all manner of other unpleasant conditions. I am certain were he not Bruce Wayne, he would have been dead a long time ago."

I find Alfred's opinion on my behavior somewhat unwelcome. I can admit I tread a fine line in regards to my health. I stand on the cusp of my body's ultimate fitness level, but am also one mere miscalculation away from destroying it with overexertion. But I do not consider myself reckless. I watch for Dick's reaction. The boy offers the old man a look of uncertainty.

"You're saying Bruce is a freak of nature? Alfie, if that's the case, and the guy is incapable of being hurt, how can I keep up with him?"

"I did not say he is incapable of being hurt but rather he does not accept pain as an excuse to cease normal activities. As for keeping pace with him, Master Bruce does not expect you to. He does not wish to make you in his image. What he wants, more than anything, is to give you a childhood that he never allowed himself. His 'crusade' is not yours and, after recent events, he understands that, irrespective of your training and enthusiasm, you are still just a child."

I am not surprised by Alfred's accurate analysis of my intentions. He is a man of unrivalled perception and is especially adept at interpreting my body language. After thirty years, it is not unexpected. Dick looks totally confused. Alfred smiles.

"I understand your bewilderment. It is often the way that Master Bruce says one thing when he means another. Just know that presently, he understands you are trying your best and for him, that is more than enough."

Alfred senses my presence. He does not where I am, but he knows I am here. It is subtle, but his words are also directed at me as well as Dick. The old man is making a point. Yes, my parenting skills are lacking. My distance from the boy is not helping our relationship. But I am…unclear how to rectify the problem without encouraging him to return to the impulses that almost got us killed in the first place. Spontaneity, a normal trait of Robin's fighting style, is absent from recent patrols and the boy is unwilling to act without my approval. I know this is a direct result of what transpired with Two-Face only months earlier, but I believe Dick has misunderstood my intentions. I do not want a robot for a partner…

I want him.

"I'm gonna stay down here for a while, Alfie. See if Bruce turns up." Dick says. I stiffen. The tone of his voice is casual enough, but the way he is slyly glancing in my direction is unnerving. When he looks again, this time right at where I am currently standing, I know. Alfred frowns at the boy. "I know you're worried about the stairs, but I promise if I need help I'll call you." Dick reassures him. The old man seems to accept this, nodding before parting with warning of an early bedtime. The boy watches him ascend the stairs. Once Alfred's footsteps are faint enough, he looks at me again.

"I'm not mad, Bruce. I know what you're like. Any reason you're down here? Did you make a breakthrough on the Fognini case?" Although my silent observation is an unwarranted invasion of privacy, Dick genuinely does not mind. He is far more forgiving than most people. I step out of the shadows.

"I have theorized on certain facts. What gave me away?"

"Alfred. And the fact that the room turns cold whenever you're in it." I have seen The Sixth Sense. We watched it last week and, for some reason, Dick found it hilarious. I think I can see why. He is smiling and clearly amused by his own wit. I smile too.

"How was your day?" I find myself asking. He shrugs.

"Okay. I caught up on my French homework and helped Alfred with some of the housework…" The boy pauses before wrinkling his nose. "I wasn't too good with the housework. Definitely not my forte. How was your day?"

"Good. Thank you."

I am not much of a talker unless pressed. Dick is the opposite. The boy is still pushing for me to share more details. His expression is urging me to add something to my reply. Alfred has suggested this is one of the reasons I am not particularly close to him, my lack of communication. I will endeavor to try harder.

"I had a board meeting. It went well. They went in my favour." It is not especially vivid or interesting, but I have made an attempt to elaborate. Dick seems impressed.

"Cool. So, you heard what Alfred was saying right? Is any of that true?"

"Dick…"

"Right, right, sorry to put you on the spot like that. It's just…sometimes I feel like…" It is clear from the beginning of his sentence that the boy cannot finish it. I am sure he knows what he feels. Speaking is not a problem for Dick. Articulation is where he lacks polish and sometimes trips over himself. He looks at me in frustration and I sense he wishes to move away from that avenue of conversation. We are both uncomfortable. I oblige.

"Would you like to hear what I've come up with in the Fognini case?"

The boy's dour disposition immediately brightens. "Absotively, big guy."

My explanation of the inconsistencies we encountered last night does not sit well with Dick. The boy is especially concerned with the intelligence collected on the operation. He was responsible for correlating the acquired information and is angry he did not scrutinize it. When he revisits events, Dick felt getting the initial address was too easy when we were driving to it. He chastises himself for not voicing his concerns. I tell him I should have identified the operation as false when I saw the people Palazzo had surrounded himself with at the first safe house. The five men we disabled were not from a narcotic background with three of them being nothing more than petty thugs. I had apprehended two of them at least twice in the past year for assault. Dick does not believe in sharing blame.

"I should have been looking at the details. There were way too many. A beat cop could've put this case together with the amount of info we got." The boy is saying as he leans on the back of my chair. I feel his breath on the back of my head.

"I doubt it. Although the intelligence was suspiciously complete, correlating the data is not a straight-forward task. This operation was meant strictly for us and Gordon. Fognini wanted to see how we would perform." Dick lets out a deflated sigh that ruffles my hair.

"Looks like he got what he wanted. Any ideas where he's hiding the real deal?"

"Although it makes more sense to store it in a location outside of the city, I believe Fognini has it located somewhere in The Narrows. His front as a legitimate property developer means he owns several buildings in that area. Of course, he has properties all over Gotham and the East Coast, but…"

"But due to the proximity of the docks and abundant criminal population in The Narrows, he's far more likely to stockpile his stuff in that area. Sounds simple enough; we swing by there in a couple of days and just hit each Fognini-owned place one-by-one until we get what we're looking for."

"There are at least fourteen legitimately-owned properties to investigate. It is unclear whether he illegally owns more, but we have to assume the worst. We have no intelligence whatsoever to state that Fognini intends to sit on his shipment in the next twenty-four hours, let alone two days. He could transport them out of the city tonight. Without any information on credible associates to shake down or leads to follow, we're totally in the dark. Suggestions, partner?"

My pessimism is thick tonight. For a moment, I fear Dick has inadvertently adopted the same outlook; he is eerily quiet. "We've gotta have a lead or a clue, boss. A guy like Fognini isn't perfect. Let's reason it out. If you were a crime boss specializing in the narcotics racket, what would you need to make sure of? The product of course, but also the guys under you. You'd need to make sure they could be trusted. You'd need to make sure they were careful, experienced, professional in all departments. They'd have to be smart and not just street-smart. You'd want the best to make sure you were the best. Who's the best guy to have as your right-hand man for an operation like this?" Dick has me thinking hard on the matter. The boy is entirely correct. Fognini can and only will afford the best man for this operation. The shipment will definitely be sizeable. Fognini does not deal small. I muse in silence for long minutes. Dick is waiting for me to make a connection.

There was a man. Someone the likes of Jervis Tetch, The Mad Hatter, and Jonathan Crane, The Scarecrow, would go to for certain compounds. He was elusive. I am certain I have viewed his record and found it to be both extensive and solely built upon narcotic charges. His name however, the most important, critical piece of information at this juncture, escapes me. I am certain he would be perfect for such a job role, the best man to ensure success. I picture him in my head: Average height, stocky build, Caucasian, balding, blue eyes…

The image could still be any number of possibilities. I turn to relay this to Dick. Before I can open my mouth, something clicks into place. Looking at the boy, a young, black-haired adolescent, sparks a memory of a heinous crime from before his arrival. A boy was found in The Narrows, suffering from severe withdrawal symptoms associated with prolonged cocaine usage. Upon being brought into Gotham General Hospital, it was discovered he was Dexter Martin, a thirteen-year-old who'd gone missing some six months earlier. Examination revealed in addition to needle marks, Dexter had also been the victim of sexual assault on multiple occasions. Initial investigations into his disappearance suggested he was a simple runaway and would return when he got scared. With new evidence, Gordon and I theorized he was most likely abducted in the street, forced into cocaine addiction and then prostitution to fund his habit. When he suffered a collapse, those abductors threw him back out into the street. The very idea someone could do that to a child and take pleasure in it was beyond sickening. Dexter died two days after being found.

My investigation into the case yielded similarities with other cases from Gotham's past. In 1996, Jacob Elsberry, fourteen-years-old, went missing on the way to school. He was found in the river five months later. Forensics revealed he had only just recently died from a combination of high amounts of cocaine ingestion and internal trauma caused by multiple rapes. He was black-haired, blue-eyed and a budding sports star; the same characteristics described in Dexter. I uncovered four other instances where a young adolescent male with black hair, blue eyes and good sporting ability was subjected to cocaine addiction, severe sexual assault and then dumped when dying. The pattern was overlooked by corrupt members of GCPD, obviously paid-off by whoever was responsible for taking those young boys lives. Gordon revealed he had tried to get his superiors to investigate a known child molester with a history of narcotic and sex offences, but they would not listen. I told him to give the name to me. I would settle this…

Derrick Combs. The man's name was Derrick Combs. His rap sheet was unsettling. Innumerable charges relating to drug trafficking, drug possession with intent to sell, aggravated sexual assault on a minor and attempted abduction of a minor were dropped due to lack of evidence. Drug samples recovered at the scene mysteriously disappeared from the evidence locker, victims refused to testify and the man himself claimed ignorance. I confronted him. It was not pleasant. He suffered four broken ribs, a fractured sternum, jaw and dislocated shoulder. I managed to stop short of actual irreparable damage such as death. The confession he gave me, the one I made sure to record, was dismissed in court as being coerced under duress without valid provocation and unnecessary brutality. In it, he admitted everything. Since the day that day in court, Derrick Combs has been a ghost.

"Derrick Combs." I say. Dick claps me on the back.

"Alright, boss-man! Let's pull up his record and get an address."

I look at him smiling with youthful exuberance and wonder if Dexter had done the same. The thought unsettles me and I am reluctant to further corrupt his innocence. What I say next is in the gravest tone possible.

"I don't think you should see this, Dick. It involves things I'd…rather you not have knowledge of."

The boy's smile gives way to a frown. His hand is still on my back.

"Bruce, we're partners. I can't go into this blind. Bad things happen when you leap before you look."

I know to what he is referring. Judge Watkins was an error in judgement on his part. He did not understand the game Two-Face was playing. He acted before he thought the situation through. He is unwilling to make any move without knowing all the angles. The boy is correct; he needs to know and I need to tell him. So I do. I recount the whole investigation I was working with Gordon. I spare few details. Once I cross to his record and read out the charges, I see Dick understands my concern. To his credit, the boy is not overcome by the callousness of the murders. He remains alert and accepts each detail in-kind. I find his professionalism admirable.

"So, this guy does all these bad things, crosses you, escapes conviction and skips town. Why do you think he'd come back at all? He could do this kind of work anywhere in the world with his credentials; why risk coming back here and a possible reunion with you?" I have a theory, a very dark, twisted theory. I would prefer to feign ignorance, but Dick knows me too well. He knows I always have a theory and, unfortunately, they are usually accurate. He is waiting for my reply. For the first time since Judge Watkins, I hesitate in answering. The boy sees this immediately.

"He may have his eye on you." I say, slightly unbelieving I have just articulated such an ugly thought to a child. Dick is momentarily rendered mute by my assessment. Then his penchant for putting puzzle pieces together, his well-learned detective instincts, kicks in. He has taken his emotions out of the conversation. All he now cares about is logical, practical reasoning. His voice is steady as he stitches our fragments together into a plausible framework.

"Luciano Fognini is in trouble. His last shipment has not been well-received. His buyers demand higher quality for their money or business operations will cease. We know that's true because of Gordon's interception of half his shipping product in April. So the guy needs to ensure his next shipment is delivered without any problems. He knows between Gordon's new-look GCPD department and our less conventional methods he will have trouble finding a gap in our net. He needs someone to handle this operation, someone with vast experience in shipping drugs and a good track record for getting away with it should he get caught. He somehow locates Derrick Combs. He wants him to front his operation, be his right-hand man. Maybe Derrick isn't too crazy about going back into Gotham because of the bat problem. Fognini, though, knows the guy's weakness is teenage boys. He makes him an offer: ensure the delivery of the shipment to his buyers and he'll provide Combs with what he wants. Combs says he's done with that game. Fognini is desperate at this point because Combs is the best guy available right that second and he's on a strict deadline; he can't hang around to look for someone else. It HAS to be Combs. He knows the guy's type and suggests me. He sets us up with that false lead to get us in action and observes me. He knows I'm carrying an injury from Palazzo's hook and aims to exploit it. Combs gets the drugs through and then gets me as payment for services rendered…" When Dick pauses, I know what he is going to say next and I agree. "That's so flimsy a premise a slight breeze could knock it down. We need proof the guy's in the city and that he'd working for Fognini."

We spend three hours trawling through databases, looking for something concrete of Derrick Combs. We are certain Combs would be using a false name since his is flagged under the Sex Offender's Register and would be tied to Fognini through some form of paperwork. We look into Fognini's property business and its employee records. There are many names to cross-examine. Many are legitimate property developers and experts to ensure the credibility of the front, but some are not. The homepage of the website has been recently updated and we home in on the newest information available. There is a new Senior Development Manager, a Mark Allen, added under a contacts list. Although there is no accompanying picture, a cell phone number is listed. I draw Dick's attention to this. He agrees it is something to look into further.

We now concentrate all our efforts on finding out about Mr. Allen. He has just moved to the city from Phoenix, Arizona where he was a notable property manager and consultant with a successful real estate firm. He has no family but resides in a catchment area near to Dick's middle school. We both find this odd. Hacking into the DMV gifts us his driving license details. It is an Arizona license with all relevant information. His height, weight, age and eye colour all correspond to Derrick Combs, but the photograph does not put this matter to bed. The gentleman in the license photograph has a radically different facial bone structure and profile to Combs with glasses and a possible wig further hindering a positive identification.

Dick offers plastic or reconstructive surgery as an explanation. Of course it is reasonable Combs had his features altered to avoid detection, but we have no evidence…yet. We trace Mark Allen back to Arizona, before his arrival at the property firm. There is an employment record stretching back to only 2004; the year Derrick Combs fled Gotham. Before 2004, the man did not seem to exist. When I say only 2004, I mean those are the only years we can substantiate; everything from prior to 2004 is a fabrication. Dick is becoming excited. He believes we have found proof. I too am exhilarated by the prospect. I am also wary. I need to make absolutely sure of this man's identity; he could be someone else entirely.

"We need to set-up a meeting." I say having carefully weighed-up the options. Dick nods in agreement.

"I'm pretty sure Wayne Enterprises would be very interested in a joint venture with Fognini's company. How many spare buildings do you have to sell?" The boy asks, smiling at me. We both know Wayne Enterprises' real-estate portfolio is beyond extensive. Not including the main tower, the company owns almost a third of the city. I am well-positioned to seize advantage of the opportunity afforded to me. I call Mr. Allen. As soon as he answers, I recognize his voice. As soon as I drop my name, Mr. Allen is excited and more than willing to meet me. We schedule for tomorrow, in Wayne Enterprises' board room. I tell him he may bring as many associates as he deems fit. He asserts his authority as Senior Development Manager and says he will come alone. I am satisfied as we part ways. Tomorrow I will know. Tomorrow I will know for sure.


	3. Chapter 3

**Details 3**

It is ten o'clock in the morning at Wayne Enterprises. Mr. Mark Allen, the man both I and Dick believe to be Derrick Combs and our only potential lead, is not expected for another fifteen minutes. I am in my office, preparing for his imminent arrival. Recording devices are in place and I hope to gain a thumbprint from a specially coated drinking glass. In less than half-an-hour, I will have a definitive answer. I am still concerned. It is not for Mr. Allen or my own intuition betraying me; it is the presence of another person sitting in on the meeting. Dick insisted on accompanying me. I advised against it. If this man is Combs, I do not feel comfortable with the boy near him. Dick is exactly his type and would therefore gather unwanted attention. Alfred also strongly voiced his opposition. The boy was adamant it would only add more weight to our theory if Allen were to leer at him. He points out my presence means he is in no danger and that Allen would not risk any lewd behaviour for fear of exposure. He is correct, but still…I am not happy with the situation.

"He'll be here any minute." Dick says as he sits on the edge of my desk. The boy is bubbling with nervous energy. He is convinced of this man's identity. I am still not sure. I do concede, however, that doubts aside, this man is our best lead and only hope at finding Fognini's shipment before it departs the city. I remain reserved, but encouraged on the matter.

"Do you think I look attractive enough?" The boy asks. I am aware he has made every effort to be as enticing as possible. I do not approve of such behaviour, especially from a teenage boy. His preening alone before patrols is bad enough without dolling himself up to bait a potential paedophile. I do not respond verbally. I allow the dark, disapproving glare on my face to talk for me. Dick nods in understanding, "Right, shut up and leave the talking to you, got it, big guy."

A buzz on the intercom announces his arrival. I adopt a sunny disposition before allowing him through. I am immediately struck by his familiar stocky physique that is hidden behind a well-tailored suit. He has a prominent moustache that obscures his top lip and thin, steel-rimmed glasses that break-up the shape of his face. The eyes staring out at me from behind the lenses are very familiar too. In one thick, callused hand he holds a professional-looking briefcase from an exclusive collection. He meets my gaze and offers a smile. I walk around the desk and move in for a handshake.

"Hi, Bruce Wayne. You must be Mr. Allen. It's a pleasure to meet you." I say grasping his hand. His grip is strong.

"The feeling is mutual, Mr. Wayne. And who is this young man?" He says looking past me at Dick. I study his expression intently. I take an immediate dislike to the way he is looking at the boy. It is not normal. I turn to face Dick; he is displaying one of his more charming smiles. I scowl at him briefly.

"This is my ward, Richard Grayson. He's not been feeling too well the past couple of days and I just wanted to keep an eye on him. I hope you don't mind." My voice sounds natural enough. Mr. Allen certainly seems to think so.

"Not at all, Mr. Wayne." The man says reaching past me with an outstretched hand for the boy to shake. Dick does the polite thing.

"Pleased to meet you, Sir."

"Same here, young man. I do hope you feel better soon."

Although there will be ample time for voice analysis and verification later, I already detect a familiarity about his inflection and pronunciation I recognize. The pace at which our theory is gaining ground threatens to run away of its own accord. Conscious of this, I press on with the meeting.

Mark Allen may be Derrick Combs, but the man's knowledge of real-estate development is intricate. He talks confidently about re-building run-down or condemned areas of Gotham in order to attract new clients to the city. All his facts and figures regarding financial cost and labour hold water. As he begins to expand on current projects in The Narrows, I am most struck by the honest tone of his voice. I believe he genuinely believes in the work Fognini's company is proposing to implement. For one brief moment, when he is discussing one particular building in The Narrows, I think I have made a mistake. My doubt almost overwhelms my instincts that say this is our man. I feel a grave miscalculation on my part has led to a waste of almost twenty-four hours of time we do not have. Then I see something. Dick does not see it and Mr. Allen is not aware he has disclosed it, but I see it. And I know I am right.

As he makes a grand gesture with his left hand to convey the enormity of the project, his left wrist is momentarily exposed. On it, just above the joint, is a distinctive tribal tattoo. It is small and triangular, barely two inches long, but I see it. Derrick Combs has such a tattoo in the exact same position on his left wrist. The style of the tattoo is a one-off, only done by one individual in the entirety of the United States who is based in Gotham City. I know this because I interrogated him in trying to locate Combs after the trial. I allow myself a small, internal smile of satisfaction. Not only have I found a solid lead in the Fognini case, I have also found the man responsible for giving me some of the worst nights of my career.

"So you see, Mr. Wayne," Mr. 'Allen' says pointing on a city map splayed on my desk, "If you were to provide us with these three tenement blocks near to Park Row, I am confident we can re-energize business in that area and improve the quality of living of its residents. What do you say? Obviously, you would also get a generous share of the profits made on this redevelopment scheme due to the size of your investment, but the fine details can be negotiated at your discretion." It is at this point of the meeting I realize I have yet to offer him a glass of water. The moment for doing this has passed. The meeting is into its final stages. I look at him and raise my eyebrows, nodding my head as if in agreement.

"You have given me a lot to think about, Mr. Allen, a lot to think about." I say with traces of astonishment in my voice. He looks incredibly pleased with himself. "I was hoping you would say something like that, Mr. Wayne. The very notion of a possible partner in Wayne Enterprises is a truly exciting prospect for the company I represent. There is, of course, no pressure at this time, but I take it you will consider the offer?" I pour two glasses with a small quantity of scotch. I am mindful of the manner in which I hold the glass. When I extend one to him, he takes it eagerly. I raise my glass.

"Mr. Allen, you have done your company a great service coming here and will be hearing from my associates in the next few days with our decision. Congratulations." He clink glasses and, barely three minutes later, Mr. 'Allen' has left my office. I turn off all recording devices before speaking to Dick. He is candid on his view of proceedings.

"That guy was seriously checking me out. Whenever he drew your attention to a chart or figure, he glanced at me. His eyes just screamed pervert. What about you?"

"It's him."

The boy's eyes widen. He smiles with the sort of excitement most boys would show for Christmas and birthday presents. He leans toward me. "For real?" His voice suggests he is feeling the same adrenaline rush I am presently experiencing. I nod. Dick looks like he is about to shout in triumph but composes himself. "So, what's our next move, boss?"

He sees me smile and knows what I am about to reply. The boy smiles in approval before I can begin to speak. I say it anyway. "A house call."

The thumbprint on Mr. Allen's glass only confirms what we already know: it is Derrick Combs. Thoroughness is important. We now have definitive confirmation of his identity. I am surprised he did not think to alter his prints, but not greatly; facial reconstruction is typically considered a good enough measure in most criminal circles. Our theory, a once flimsy premise, now has the stability of concrete. Before I go in for my 'visit' to Comb's address, I must inform Jim Gordon of my progress. With all this substantial new evidence, the chances of securing a conviction to Blackgate State Penitentiary are firmly in our favour. Gordon is the only law-enforcement officer I trust. He deserves this lead and this collar. He will have it.

It is close to ten o'clock at night. Although he is not expecting me, I know Jim Gordon will still be working. The man's efforts are tireless. My injuries are still hurting as I approach GCPD Headquarters, but not like last night. Although the boy begged to accompany me, I benched him for this one. It is true Alfred's assessment showed his ribs are not as damaged as initially thought and he has already made good progress towards recovery. But I don't want him anywhere near this man. Not ever. I land on the roof. Dropping down onto the ledge of Gordon's office window is a formality. Once there, I peer through the glass to see him working by desk lamp. He is trying to find a lead in the Fognini case. His desk is covered in narcotics files. I ease the window open. My technique for this is refined. I make no audible noise slipping into his office. He has yet to notice my presence. I position myself to stand just off to his left hand side, nearest the light.

"Evening, Jim." I say in a harsh, gravelly whisper. He jumps in place before relaxing.

"Yes, it certainly is." He says turning to face me. He is visibly tired. I have no doubt he has been here most of the last two days. "I take it you know about the shipment we seized?"

"The lab revealed them to contain trace amounts of cocaine only. The shipment was not viable."

Gordon slaps his thigh and nods. He is frustrated by the futility of his effort. The GCPD officer who was seriously wounded, one officer Gary Mahoney, died of his wounds late last night. It is unfortunate. Gordon is glancing around the office. "Is the kid not joining us tonight?" I am aware Jim is fond of the boy. I guess it is because he is a father. Dick likes him too.

"No. I have information on a possible lead. It is in Robin's best interests not to be associated with it."

Gordon accepts this without any hesitancy. He nods. "Okay, so, what've you got?" His voice is notably more optimistic than a moment ago. It is a testament to both the strength of our relationship and Jim's own strength of character that a seemingly bleak situation can be transformed into one of hope.

"Derrick Combs is shipping Fognini's drugs."

Gordon's features are now very grave. He has not forgotten either. He also instantly understands my concerns over my partner's safety. Of course, just like me, Jim wants irrefutable proof of what I am telling him. He wants no mistakes this time. I spend the next half-an-hour explaining the whole situation. I do not withhold sources for my thumbprint evidence. I tell him of Bruce Wayne's co-operation into my investigation, of his willingness to set-up the meeting despite concerns over his ward's safety. Gordon has no reason to disbelieve me. He does not _want_ to disbelieve me. He wants Derrick Combs off the streets.

"We'll have to handle this discreetly. If the press gets wind of this, Fognini is going to just relocate the shipment to somewhere else until this all blows over. A late shipment is better than no shipment at all. What do you suggest?" Gordon says this after debating all other possibilities. He is a professional in all senses of the word. I hide nothing from him.

"I plan to drop by 'Mark Allen's' house shortly and see what I can find. I have a feeling he plans to move the shipment in the next thirty-six hours; any longer than that risks incurring the wrath of Fognini's buyers."

Jim agrees. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to mobilize a unit, ready on standby. As soon as I get a location, I'll inform you." As soon as I finish, Gordon is pointing a finger at me as if in accusation. His face is resolute.

"Just remember to let us secure the area before you try anything heroic. Understand? I won't have a mess like last time." His tone is one of anger, but his voice is firm. I understand. He feels my presence in the warehouse was indirectly responsible for Mahoney's death. I made an error. I will NOT make another. I nod in agreement. He knows I feel the same way as him.

"Wait for my signal."

I am only minutes from Comb's address when the boy comes over the airwaves.

"_Hello Batman, this is Robin, radio check, over."_

"I hear you, partner. What is it?"

"_Combs is not at home. He's currently on route to one of the properties in The Narrows owned by Fognini."_

"How did you come across this information?"

"_When he wasn't looking, I slipped a tracking device under his jacket lapel. Figured it might come in handy if he turned out to be our guy. I can patch the GPS signal into the Batmobile's onboard system in seconds."_

The boy's role as operational support is proving very effective. His own initiative in planting a device is also commendable. I am proud of him. I accept his offer of help and have a fix on Comb's vehicle moments later. He is deep within The Narrows. The only location he could possibly be going to is a Fognini-owned storage facility nearby Ellis Street, a haven for drug-dealers and other degenerates. I am careful to maintain distance. The tracking system alerts me to the fact Combs is only two minutes from this site. I am cautious.

"_He's stopped moving." _Robin informs me even as I can see this for myself. As anticipated, his end destination is directly outside the storage facility. I ditch the car in a disused alleyway two blocks from the corner of Ellis Street and make the rest of the journey on foot. I maintain radio contact with the boy via an earpiece concealed under my cowl. What he says next is strange.

"_He's not alone, Antonio Palazzo's with him." _I stop in place. This information is not alarming to me. I am aware of Palazzo's release on bail pending trial. What does concern me is how Robin knows this. The GPS tracking system does not account for heat signatures and our technology is still not capable of hacking into closed circuit security systems, especially not remotely. From my position on the rooftop of a tenement building at the corner of Elm Boulevard and Sampson Street, I can see the storage facility. A glance through binoculars reveals no obvious security systems in any case. I am growing concerned that the boy has just made a visual identification. And to do that, he would have to be…

"What is your current location?" My voice is sharp. I am hoping the boy is psychic and has not just flagrantly disobeyed my instructions. What I hear next confirms unwelcome suspicions.

"_I can explain…"_

"Stay right where you are. My ETA is two minutes."

I told him. I told him when I offered him his job back. I wanted him to be a good soldier. I wanted him to obey my orders at all times, without question. Even if it meant watching me die. Those were my conditions. My only conditions. Today I told him to stay at home base. I told him to monitor frequencies and search databases. He said he would. He promised me he would stay put. Words cannot describe my anger and disappointment at his actions. Two minutes later, I land on the rooftop of the storage facility. The outside of the building is now deserted. The car registered to Mark Allen, a silver Chevrolet, is parked in front of it. Satisfied that Combs is inside, I turn my attentions to the shadows. Propped up behind a chimney stack, I find Robin.

The boy is in full uniform. He has an earpiece in his left ear and a palm-sized electronic tablet in his right hand. I recognize what tracking system the tablet belongs to and understand his presence. The system is an older model, with a range of only 3 kilometers. The boy planted the wrong tracking device and, unwilling to lose our target, he set off to maintain a strong signal. Even so, he should not have acted without my consultation. I have no doubt Alfred is unaware of his absence. The boy is very adept at disappearing.

"You can shout at me later, but right now, the shipment is in there." Robin says to me, indicating below him with a finger.

"You should have planted a listening device on his lapel. You could have triangulated the signal to an accuracy of two square blocks from the safety of the cave and listened in on conversation to confirm Palazzo's presence." I tell him. I am still angry enough to consider firing him yet again. The boy responds by puffing out his cheeks.

"Yeah, well, I'm just a kid so I don't always get the perfect solution to a problem. I'm sorry okay?" I can see he is genuinely sorry. I find myself relenting. Sometimes I forget he is a child. I expect the same standards from him as I do myself. This situation is a prime example of why applying those standards to him is unrealistic. I am certain he panicked when realizing his error. His first instinct is not to sit back and assess the situation like mine; his is to act. I put a hand on his shoulder and sigh.

"In future, examine all your options before acting. We will discuss this at length at a more convenient time. Have you had visual confirmation on the shipment being stored here?"

"No, but I was close enough to hear Combs and Palazzo talk. They said 'we need to confirm the merchandise's safety before arranging transport'. It sounds like it's going down tonight."

Although I do not disbelieve what my partner has discovered, I must confirm the presence of the drugs before sending Gordon and his men into a highly dangerous area. The surrounding buildings provide a perfect opportunity to bottleneck any police unit and use them for target practice. With this in mind, I switch to thermal imaging. There are fifteen distinct heat signatures. I cannot make a positive I.D of the shipment. I need to move in closer.

"How are your injuries?" I ask Robin. He shrugs.

"Okay, I guess. Just a little bit sore."

He does not ask why. He knows just from my lack of movement I need to get nearer. The boy understands that when we lose control of the situation, I need to know he is able to hold his own. If he is only mildly sore from his injuries, we are okay. Entry into the structure undetected is predictably difficult. There are no windows to squeeze through and the chances of a ventilation system in so old a building are also unlikely. The boy suggests a rear door he scouted on his initial sweep of the area. It is certain to be guarded. I examine the chimney stack. It is cylindrical and metallic, but no longer fixed to the roof. The bolts holding it in place are heavily corroded as well as rusted. Between us, we manage to quietly dislodge it. The opening beneath is small, too small for me…but not Robin.

We now have a view of the interior. The lights are on. People are milling about innumerable packing crates stacked in blocks all over the floor. They are armed, but their weapon systems are small and compact. Most are carrying pistols in shoulder holsters. Many of them are equipped with a high-quality silencer. All the individuals look professional and hardened by experience and jail time. I note I cannot identify the majority of them. We spot Combs and Palazzo talking in a corner. It is clear they trust these men to oversee things; they have yet to look anywhere else but at one another. I can see no security systems in place. It is a risk to send Robin inside just to confirm the shipment is viable, but I must know for sure before I send word to Gordon. There will be no mistakes this time.

The boy figures he can land on the light fixture to our right without any difficulty and then swing across to land behind the stack of crates nearest to the far wall. This is not a question of his gymnastic ability but of his capacity for stealth. Combs and the others do not know we have traced them to this location, so they are not expecting trouble. All their body language and manner suggests they are relaxed and confident. I do not anticipate they will look at the ceiling unless there is an audible noise to make them. Should he make a mistake and alert them to his presence, there is very little I can do. Even with speed and his reflexes, the chance he could be killed is of high probability. We could try and find another option, but time is running out. Robin wants to do it. I am reluctant. He goes regardless.

The boy moves like a whisper. Watching him traverse fatal drops with a casual ease is a reminder of why he is my partner. It takes him less than twenty seconds to reach his target. A long moment passes. Nobody in the room notices his presence. After the moment has gone, Robin is back on the light fixture, courtesy of painstakingly practiced use of his grappling line. I look on as he virtually skips across the lights until he is directly below me. He readies himself. I extend my arms, ready to catch. We count: 1…2…3. The boy jumps straight up and grabs hold of my wrists. I grip his forearms and gently hoist him through the gap. My shoulder is burning. Robin is smiling at me.

"You're gonna love this, boss-man." He says handing me what outwardly appears to be a bag of self-rising flour. His expression tells me it isn't. I sample it. It is cocaine, highly concentrated cocaine. We have confirmation. I make the call to Gordon. He informs us he is less than ten minutes away. We both agree to wait until he arrives before doing anything more. It is the right call.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Time for the set-piece...**

**Reluctantly linked up, Batman and Robin begin their assault on the warehouse. Is this a mistake the Dark Knight cannot afford or take-back? **

**Details 4**

Later, I will admit dropping into the warehouse was a mistake. As I am set upon by three well-trained men brandishing customized firearms with military-like familiarity, I feel my tactical awareness is lacking. Robin's location is unknown...so is Combs. I will address my concerns later. All my focus goes on the immediate threat facing me. My first move is to gain the upper-hand in the encounter. I achieve this by expert use of three batarangs. The risk is always only two of them hitting their targets and one going astray. Fortunately, my aim is accurate and all three men find their weapons on the ground and a searing pain in their hand. Their choice to not attempt recovery of their firearms indicates all three are capable fighters. This is confirmed when a punch misses my head by millimetres.

Their techniques are practiced and controlled. They present no over-aggression and attack in tandem rather than separately. Their reward for teamwork and patience is to land some heavy blows to my jaw and ribs. There is no wet snap though; all my ribs are still intact. It points to sloppy application rather than inaccuracy. One on my immediate left shoots a roundhouse kick destined for my side. I block and counter in the same instant, flooring him with an elbow to his temple. Before I can think, one of the others is swinging for my head. A lucky jerk of my head avoids the collision and a strong block with my forearm parries another crushing strike. If the room were not brimming with dark smoke, reinforcements would have arrived by this stage. I am thankful for that as one offers a glancing blow to my cheek. A moment later, not wishing to extend the encounter beyond its lifespan, I drop knock-out capsules and end it. As I clear their proximity, the capsules detonate and all three are officially down for the count. I move on.

The smoke is clearing. I can see several bodies on the floor before me and know the boy has performed well. Upon further inspection none of them are Combs or Palazzo. I have counted a total of seven incapacitated individuals, meaning eight are still unaccounted for. Robin is also missing. I get to higher ground by climbing on top of the crates. By now, the smoke is almost gone. I see a side door flung wide open and find it noteworthy. Moments later, I have disappeared through the doorway. I take care of two more guards in making my way down a narrow passageway. Their attacking style was similar enough to those previously encountered to make the battle significantly shorter. Now there are only six, I feel better about Robin's chances. At the end of the passageway, I see yet another door.

Logic reasons that there must be some kind of exit beyond this door or they would not have fallen back to it. The fact they placed two men outside it suggests it takes time to engineer the escape. Either that or they were meant to stall me. I fling open the door. What meets my eyes shocks me. Combs is laid on the floor, his pants around his knees. There is something underneath him. No...

I was engaged in combat no longer than eight minutes; there is no way this could have happened. I immediately yank the degenerate off whatever he is laying on and my worst fears are confirmed. Robin is prone on his stomach, his arms splayed out in front of him, his legs apart. The room has no exits; Combs knew he would not escape this building. I do not want to look beneath the boy's cape, but it is obscuring my understanding of what has transpired. My fingers tremble visibly as I take hold of a corner and peel it back on itself. His pixie shorts are still in place, although an effort has been made to yank them down by force; his belt is torn. My relief is almost enough to make me drop to my knees. I prepare to scoop the boy up in my arms, only for my partner to stumble to his feet under his own power.

Robin still has his back to me as he stands up straight. The boy slowly brushes himself off before turning to me. There is a smile on his face. Words cannot express my thankfulness, but I am puzzled by his mood. He looks down at Combs. My eyes follow him down to the figure lolling at my feet. I am surprised to see this sick excuse of a human being is completely incoherent. Glancing back at Robin, I see the boy holding out his left palm to me. Wedged between his thumb and index finger is a needle. I am impressed. Rather than rely on his superior fighting ability to disable Combs and run the risk of being overpowered, the boy made certain he would come out unscathed. The needle contains some kind of fast-acting anaesthetic, sodium thiopental or something similar.

"Pretty smart, huh bo-"

I do not allow him to finish. My arms have pulled him tight against my chest in an embrace neither of us wants, but my feelings demand. The boy is safe. Despite my bad judgement and the boy's impulsive actions, he is still safe and unharmed. I know we were both fortunate tonight. In the heat of the moment, any number of factors could have soured the outcome. Either one of us could be dead from gunfire or a lucky blow. The boy could have become another of Combs' victims and been irreparably traumatised from it. So many things to consider, so many tangible possibilities we would not be okay tonight. Yes, I am fortunate to share this moment of intimacy with him. Had his tranquillizer failed, I would have never been able to forgive myself. As it happens, I am simply angry at my lack of preparation.

Even though the boy is stunned by my action, he understands. Despite my training and fierce reputation, Robin knows I am human, that I feel. Right now, pressed against me, the boy knows I was fearful for his safety. He knows his value to me goes beyond companionship. He knows I love him. I say nothing. Words would diminish the power of such a gesture. The boy says nothing either. I feel his right arm hook round my back and know he understands. It feels like an eternity before I release him. When I do, Robin looks at me with a curious expression. He transfers the needle from his left hand into a pouch on his belt. Then he looks at me again. The boy knows why I acted with such impulse just now, but still finds the intimacy strange. He cannot bring himself to say anything about it. I am glad. We still have a job to finish.

"Palazzo and two of his accomplices were apprehended trying to flee the scene. They were smart enough not to cause a scene." Gordon tells us once he and his team are inside the facility, cleaning up the mess. When he informs us of this, having stopped a key shipment and apprehended two vital parts of Fognini's operations, the man is not jubilant. His focus keeps drifting to the boy at my side. They found Combs and Jim has his suspicions. Robin is not helping deter that suspicion; his expression is troubled and it is clear he is not really paying attention to Gordon.

"Son?" Jim says putting a hand on my partner's shoulder. The boy jumps in place at the unexpected contact. I make no move against it. Robin looks at Gordon.

"Sorry, Sir, did you say something?" He sounds lost. Jim frowns.

"Yes, I did. Are you alright? Did Derrick Combs touch you at any point during this raid?" Gordon does not even hesitate in asking such an unpleasant question; he makes it sound like a routine enquiry. It is proof we are both too used to this kind of depravity. Robin shakes his head.

"No, Sir. He was out before he could try anything." Jim knows the boy is lying. A parent knows these things. The man sighs in such a way that my partner knows he wants the truth. Robin looks at me. He does not want to expose my negligence in this situation or undermine my relationship with Gordon. Although it is admirable he wishes to protect me from Jim's displeasure, I cannot allow him to lie. It demonstrates a lack of trust we cannot afford. I nod to tell him it is okay.

"After I dealt with a few of them, Combs and a couple of other guys overpowered me. They forced me into the foreman's office and left me with Combs. He said some bad things and then tried to grab me. While we were struggling I dosed him with a tranquillizer and he threw me to the floor. Um...it took longer for the stuff to kick in than I thought and...he tried to pull down my shorts. And then he was passed out on top of me. Then Batman came and got him off before the guy could crush me. That's all." Jim looks at me in disgust. I deserve the scorn. He turns back to the boy.

"But, you're okay? You don't feel like you need to talk to anyone?" He asks Robin in a very warm voice. I do not believe I have ever spoken to the boy in a voice like that. I am wary he may accept Jim's offer of counselling. He shakes his head though.

"No Sir, I'm fine, really. It was my own fault for being here in the first place."

I stiffen. The boy is taking the blame again. It reflects badly on me. I am certain Gordon feels I could have stopped Robin's involvement if I really wanted. He smiles at my partner and gently pats him on the shoulder, "Okay. I'm just going to have a word with your friend." Gordon and I move more than twenty feet away to an area away from any of his officers.

"How long do you expect me to stand by while you traumatize this boy? My god, beaten half-to-death by Harvey Dent, subjected to the worst examples of humanity on a nightly basis and now this, an attempted rape by a known paedophile? It beggars belief." Gordon's tone is heated with more than disdain and anger; there is also an element of outright disbelief at my actions. I know it will do me no good to explain the boy's disobedience of my instructions; Jim is too upset to listen. Before I can speak, the man beats me to it. "I know you love this boy. I see it in your eyes when you look at him and that is why after Two-Face, after all the horror we've let him see in this city, that is why I have done nothing. And, since his return, I have had no reason to. You seemed to have a tight grip on him and I thought you'd never endanger him so recklessly again. But this Fognini business has changed that. Understand I want that scum to face justice as bad as you, but unlike you I keep my family out of it. Consider this your final warning; you put that boy in a situation like this again and I will hunt you down, make no mistake. Are we clear?"

"Yes." I have nothing else to say. Gordon is not the type of man who bluffs such strongly-worded threats. I take his advice very seriously. He is correct; I have been uncharacteristically reckless with my decisions regarding the Fognini case. Tonight is a prime example of how I need to be more controlled or suffer unspeakable consequences as a result. Jim nods.

"Good. Now, Combs won't be talking for at least a few hours and when he finally does come round, I will be handling the interrogation. Your presence is not needed. Get out of here and take the kid home." Gordon walks away from me without looking back. I know he appreciates my efforts on behalf of his officers, they did not have to fire a single bullet, but my control of the situation was shaky. It worries him. It concerns me. I signal to the boy that we're leaving.

"It's freezing out there." Robin informs me once we are back in the car, "I thought my butt was going to fall off, seriously." The boy is trying to lift my spirits. He is aware I got grilled by Gordon and that I feel wholly responsible for what transpired and especially for what could have transpired. It is not working. The boy is also genuinely cold. I turn on the heater for him as we begin the drive back to the cave.

"I know I screwed up, okay? I know. But this is definitely a one-off thing, I'll never contradict you again, I promise." Robin swears to me as we near the cave. The boy can feel the tension ratchet up in the car and needs to break the silence. He hates the silence. But again, he is taking blame. When I got to the building I should have sent him home or at least told him to wait in the car. It would have been the logical thing to do. It would have undoubtedly been the safest thing to do, so why did I not? Perhaps he was needed in the identification, but the ensuing raid? What is wrong with my judgement? Maybe Gordon is right, perhaps my closeness to this case, to collaring Fognini is affecting my decisions. Eight minutes. He was out of my sight for eight minutes. It is more than enough time for someone like Combs to have his way. The very notion sickens me. I was careless, stupid and careless.

"We will discuss this matter in the cave, with Alfred." I tell him. He falls silent again. We reach the cave minutes later. Alfred is waiting for us. The old man looks infuriated. I exit the car first, and then Robin gets out very, very slowly. We draw level with Alfred and wait for him to speak. He indicates for us to dispense with our masks. We do so out of respect for a man who deserves to be looked in the eye. His stern gaze falls on Dick who looks up at him with the air of a scolded puppy. He then looks at me and narrows his eyes. He thinks this is my fault entirely. I say nothing. He begins in a blunt tone.

"I will dispense with formalities, Sirs, it does not seem appropriate in the current situation. Shall we begin with you, the wayward father, or you, the errant son?" The old man is preparing for a sermon. I bite my tongue. "My patience is not limitless. Although it was your decision to include the boy in your crusade, it is not you who is charged with his safe-keeping. It is true, you instruct him in defence and you keep him out of harm whilst under the mask, but it is I who look after him. I wake him in the morning, I prepare his meals, I drive him to school, I pick him up after school, I make sure he does his homework, brushes his teeth, combs his hair, need I go on? The point is that I am as much that young man's guardian as you are, but I appear far more concerned about his well-being." Alfred frowns at Dick. The boy bows his head in shame. He then glares at me. I am visibly shocked.

"What in God's name were you thinking? Derrick Combs is a highly dangerous child molester with an insatiable appetite for boys just like Richard, what were you bloody thinking? To have him exposed to knowledge of crimes so heinous that they make grown men retch is your idea of education? And then to place him in direct line of fire of this man without consideration of his health? Are you actually insane or do you simply not care?" I open my mouth to speak out and the old man's eyes dare me to. I say nothing. He nods. "Yes, keep your opinion to yourself for the moment. It is now time for you, young man." Alfred turns all his attentions on the boy who looks petrified.

"After business with Two-Face, I assumed you would exercise more restraint in accompanying him. You are not innocent in all of this. You have seen firsthand the consequences of rash decisions and I will leave it at that. I am certain he made you aware of the dangers involved in this operation and I am certain he told both you and me that you were not to leave these grounds. But, you went anyway, damn the consequences hmm? Alfred won't mind, yes, Alfred won't mind if I slip out and place myself in mortal danger for a few hours. What's the worst that can happen? I was worried beyond measure and even more so when I noticed the absence of your costume. The fact you imposed radio silence and he did not tell you to go home mean both of you are equally responsible. I want you both to know if this type of reckless abandonment continues, I will not be here to put you back together again; my nerves can no longer stand the strain of this service that is both above and beyond my profession and obligations." With that final remark, the old man has finished. Dick is fighting back tears and I am speechless. Alfred's pensive features relax and his professional voice returns moments after a surge of emotion I have never seen from him before.

"Are either of you injured?" He asks. I am aware of renewed pain in my shoulder and stomach where stitches have torn as well as sharp aches in my lower back and jaw from fresh punches, but do not feel they are sufficient to warrant medical attention. Dick tentatively raises his hand. The boy feels awful. I watch as Alfred gestures to the table and Dick meekly sits down on it. Although the boy is very upset, the old man is unsympathetic in my presence. When Dick looks at me with such sad eyes, I turn away to make an appreciation of the car. No damage whatsoever. The tyres do not even need changing. I go over to it anyway and reflect.

Alfred is perceptive. He is correct in what he has said. Even from twenty feet away, I hear the boy sobbing. I glance over my shoulder and see the old man hugging him. It is far easier for him to admit his feelings than for me. Despite the fact Alfred is right on the matter, I cannot tell him that. Admitting fault to my own mind and Dick is simple, but Alfred is different. He is far less forgiving than the boy, far more unkind. It is because, unlike the boy, he knows me, really knows me. He knows my hopes and fears, my motivations and my desires, how I think and how I act in any situation. He was there in the beginning and, although the thought is grim, will most likely be there at the end of this journey. When I am hurt, this man, this faithful servant and true friend, suffers too. He feels every one of my wounds, every scar. He knows all my stories, all my triumphs, my follies and my disasters. When he posited I am alive only because I am Bruce Wayne, he was mistaken.

I am alive because of him.

Alfred is soon finished with Dick. I see the old man wipe away a lingering tear from the boy's eye and tell him something. From my position, it is unintelligible. Dick nods as if in agreement and then hugs Alfred again. It is the one quality the old man possesses which I do not. Whereas I command respect, he commands love and respect without apparent weakness. It is obvious the boy loves the old man, as I do, but in a far more open way. Dick hides most of his feelings from me, but not Alfred. He never hides from Alfred. Minutes later, Dick has vacated the cave. It is just me and Alfred. We are alone.

"Master Bruce? I do believe you require some patching, Sir and might I suggest a medicinal cocktail to take off the sting?"

"It can wait. Shall we talk or would you like to scold me again?"

"Scolding is for children, Sir. You were educated, as gentleman should be when they are in error."

"And what lesson have I learned, Alfred? Enlighten me."

"I do believe you have rediscovered that your actions, regardless of their intent, have far-reaching consequences. It is something your father taught you as I recall."

"Is that a jibe at my parenting skills?"

"I think we both know it is, Sir."

I want to fight on, but I lack the hunger for it. Alfred will not surrender his position and I will not make him. I shake my head. "Children are difficult, Alfred. Dick's disobedience is unpredictable. My actions are the same. I have no frame of reference." I sound lost and unsure of myself. I am. The old man replies with something to alleviate my doubts concerning Dick.

"If I may Sir, it is not the boy's actions you find surprising, but that you struggle to chide him for them. After the young master ran away, you felt your volatile temperament had hastened his departure. Subsequently, upon his return, you struggled to enforce certain rules for fear of pushing him away again. It is to your credit that your feelings for the boy are so strong, but it presents many traps. Take tonight, for instance, I am sure Master Dick acted under his own instruction to join you just as I am certain, once he explained himself, you did not wish him to feel unwanted. Irrespective of this theory ringing true, you still should have disapproved of his involvement. I do believe you are too close to this case and it is clouding your better judgement."

"Has he told you what happened?"

"He alluded to certain events, ones I find most distasteful. He was more concerned by your actions when you found him. He felt like he had done something very wrong indeed. Does a hug indicate danger in your world as well, Sir?"

"I feel I do need to distance myself from him for the time being Alfred, at least until this case is resolved."

"I do not think it wise. Are you certain that Captain Gordon and his men cannot handle matters from this point onwards? You have done all the legwork after all. There is little you can add from outside the courtroom."

Perhaps the old man is right, maybe my presence in this case is no longer required for the indictment to succeed. With both major players in Fognini's drugs trade under lock and key and the supply chain irreparably broken at the source, maybe I can relax a little. I am sure Dick would appreciate a break from these kinds of stresses. I know I would. "Do you really believe the boy needs me, Alfred? You said yourself my involvement in his affairs is minimal and you have a far greater rapport with Dick than I ever could; am I even helping him at all?" I say shedding my armour in favour of a French shirt. Alfred's hand is suddenly on my shoulder, my good one. "Never be in doubt that irrespective of my influence, the young man is smitten with you. Children are not stupid and they do not trust easily. The fact the boy holds you in such high regard is only because he feels he has a very strong relationship with you. Indeed, if one feels no emotional attachment to those they live with and no desire to change it, then it is often such a relationship is unsteadied by the simplest of arguments. Master Richard has endured many highs and lows in your tenure, including some that haunt his thoughts and would break the strongest of men and he still loves you."

"You always know exactly what to say, don't you Alfred?"

"I know what you need to hear, Master Bruce."

"And what might Dick need to hear from me?"

"What every child who is told-off needs to hear; that they are still wanted."

Finding the boy proves difficult. I check all normal places for his presence, but find no sign. I know he has not fled again, having thoroughly learnt his lesson from previously, but still find his absence puzzling. After close to an hour and having used deductive reasoning to eliminate close to ninety-five percent of the manor and its surrounding grounds, I finally scale the roof. As anticipated, I notice his silhouette near to the West Wing and quietly make my way towards him. Dick is sitting on one of the stone gargoyles my father adored, but my mother hated. I share my mother's viewpoint but am reluctant to part with them. The boy is showered and dressed in some of his finer clothing, the sort I expect him to wear on school trips or important social functions, expensive in price but modest in design. Upon inspection of his footwear, a pair of Italian loafers, I am impressed he managed to climb the house and without marking them at all. Dick is not surprised at my presence. It is clear he has been awaiting my arrival. I stand beside him and wait.

"I can't believe you got up here in bare feet." The boy says shaking his head. He does not look at me. His gaze is fixed over the grounds. He shrugs, "Then again, you could probably fight crime in your underwear and still think it was nothing special. That's what I can never understand about you, Bruce; for a man who has everything, can do anything, be whatever you please, you choose this life." I can tell from his tone that Dick would like to say more on that, but he won't. He cannot open himself up to me because he feels it would be a waste. I want to say something, but the boy speaks first.

"Before you tear into me, fire me or whatever you're planning, I just want to say thanks. I don't think even my mom would've given me as many second chances to prove myself as you have. I just wish I wasn't such a disappointment to you." Although his words are harsh on his perceived failings, Dick will not cry. He will not mope. He will just listen for my judgement and accept it without hesitation. He does not beg. He does not plead. He lives with the consequences of his actions. He believes I am about to condemn him. Despite his clear display of discomfort earlier, I embrace him again. This time, he does not stiffen. If anything, he seems to sink into me and sigh. I lightly ruffle his hair in a wordless gesture of affection and then let him go.

"You will never be a disappointment. You are incapable of such a failing. Tomorrow, we start fresh. Forget everything that has already passed. This is a new beginning…for both of us."


	5. Chapter 5

**Combat Indicators**

It is raining, an odd occurrence for this time of year. The downpour is also noticeably heavy. Although my cape is saturated with water, it does not impede my fighting style. Airborne attacks are not a staple of my repertoire but merely an option; I find myself dispatching the crowd of degenerates surrounding me with very little effort. It only takes one accurate blow of my fist or foot to disable them and their overwhelming numbers quickly dwindle. The boy is very different in his approach to the situation.

Rather than waiting for the opportunity to present itself and take them out without too much fanfare, the boy attacks. He literally throws himself at the enemy, crashing into them with flying head butts and corkscrew kicks. This is not only an unwelcome bout of showboating, it is also dangerous. If the boy's reflexes weren't so sharp and his limbs so quick, he could have potentially been hit by a critical blow at least a dozen times by now. He has put almost ten of them out of commission, but struggles with the last. As I finish my final assailant with an almost casual uppercut, I observe my partner.

The boy seems winded and burnt-out by his needless display of acrobatic skill as the man swings for his head. The boy ducks and sweeps away his legs in the same instant before jumping into the air and driving his knee deep into the man's abdomen. The man screams, but it is hard to hear how loud over the rain. The boy gets up slowly and sucks in the air. He turns to look at me. I do not have to speak for him to know what I am thinking. He nods in agreement; he took unnecessary risks and almost paid the price. The boy understands my position.

We turn over our small army of criminals to Gotham's finest. I am convinced at least four of them are low-level workers in narcotics and human trafficking. One of them will talk. Someone always does. Once all of them are properly detained in the back of transport, we leave the scene. The rain is still relentless as we enter the car. When the roof closes, the world outside seems to almost cease to exist. It is just me and the boy.

"I'm sorry, Batman." Robin tells me leaning back against the head rest. The boy is both frustrated and sodden all the way through; never an agreeable combination for a teenager. "I feel like an idiot." I know he is sincere in what he says. Honesty is one of his most enduring traits. I am unclear what response he expects for me. My initial instinct is to chide him for yet more reckless behaviour. That approach did not fare well last night; the boy came within an inch of literally biting my head off. Alfred has informed me the boy is having difficulty in his studies both at school and in the cave. The old man tells of a lack of desire and enthusiasm in him that is out of character. He suggests it is largely down to my lengthy absences.

I will admit, since the sentencing of Derrick Combs I have been particularly focused on finally bringing an end to Luciano Fognini's influence in Gotham. Surveillance and intelligence gathering operations have taken priority over running the company. I have also missed many meals in the past few weeks to devote even more hours to the case. Robin has begged to accompany me, but I have forbidden it. The dangers are too great to risk his well-being. Although I have curtailed my solo operations slightly in the wake of Alfred's revelations about the boy, the time spent with him has been unsettling. He is regressing into himself emotionally, a practice he has no doubt picked up from me. It makes him hard to talk to. Regardless, I try.

"You are not at fault here, Dick." The boy looks at me in surprise. It is not for what I have admitted but rather for what I have called him. We wear masks and we talk in code. When the masks are on, there is no Bruce Wayne and there is no Dick Grayson; there is only Batman and Robin. There will be no clear cut line anymore. It is too easy to detach myself for him underneath the mask. He is no longer my ward when he wears that uniform, but my partner. He is my equal and I treat him as such. I expect...perfection when he is Robin, as I do for myself. The last few weeks have taught me this is unhealthy. The lessons were painful and avoidable. I should have listened to him.

"Alfred has told me of your troubles at school. He has alluded to the idea that my absence has caused this. I believe he is correct." Now I am discussing his civilian life, something else he was taught to separate from this other world of ours. He is grateful for the sudden lack of walls. "I regret not spending time with you this past month. It is unfair on you." Somehow, the growl I affect when under the cowl is still there as I speak to him. I cannot seem to shake it at this time.

"Sometimes, you make me so mad I wanna hit you." The boy replies. He is entitled to it. I am not an easy person to live with. My silent nature is not accommodating for someone who is my very opposite. "I know we agreed you'd never try to be my father. I know we made a deal you'd be my mentor and my guardian, that you'd teach me to use my bad feelings to fight against crime, but that's not enough, Bruce; you have to be my friend too. You get that, right?" I thought I was a friend to the boy. It is clear from the look on his face that our opinion differs on the matter. His voice is almost pleading with me to understand his point of view. I want to.

"It's like; sometimes I think I'm talking to a robot...or a Vulcan. You're all logical solution this and x equals y that, but when it comes to feelings you've got nothing to say. I mean, you say nothing in general, but it really sucks when I'm having a hard time and I'm talking to a man who could have a brick wall stand-in for him."

"So, you wish me to be more vocal?"

"For a start. I'd like you to spend more time with me too and not beating up bad guys; I wanna go out somewhere, like the zoo or the cinema, but I want to go with you, not Alfred."

"Dick, you have to understand I'm very busy most d-"

"You're a billionaire, Bruce! You don't have to work at all if you don't want to! Failing that, you don't have to work _every_ day of the week! The universe isn't going to fall apart if you take a break, honest!"

"I am aware of that. It's a salient point-"

"I'm thirteen and not an English language prodigy! I have no idea what salient means! Why can't you talk like a normal person? Alfred does a better job than you do!"

"Dick, that's not fair..."

"Jeez Bruce! It's goddamn easy to understand: I want to spend more time with you. You know why?"

"I am certain you are going to tell me."

"I want to spend more time with you because I love you. I love you, Bruce."

I fall silent. We are staring at each other with a tense awkwardness I vaguely remember. When I accompanied him to his parents' funerals, we stood together with this odd discomfort; strangers drawn together by similar misfortune and tragedy. We didn't know one another, but my hand was on his shoulder as if we did. In a way, it was like I was reliving my own parents' funeral. Dick was me and I was Alfred. I think, somehow, the boy understood how personally involved I was in what was happening. Even before I brought him into my world, he could sense a connection between us. Now, as we sit in this technological monstrosity I call a car, dressed in clothes unfit for a Halloween party and surrounded by an emotional atmosphere too thick to cut through, I feel it again.

The boy is not on the verge of tears and his voice is not uncertain of what he has just proclaimed. He said it with resolution and certainty. The look on his face dares me to admit the same.

"I didn't want to. You made it very clear you didn't want a son and I tried to just be a friend, but I couldn't. I can't shut myself from my feelings like you. You're probably the hardest guy to love in the whole world as a parent, but I do love you. I know my mom and dad would want me to be happy and I am...because I'm with you."

The boy has been in my company for over two years, but this is his first admission of feelings beyond friendship. My affections for him do run deep, but I say nothing for fear of alienating him. Now, having dropped his defences and confirmed things I had long suspected but never uncovered, Dick needs me to say something. He needs me to reciprocate or will probably never open up to me again, at least not in the near future anyway. This is my chance to truly connect with the youth and cement our relationship. I consider what to say. Then I say something that fits perfectly in my head.

"I have never been or felt closer to another human being in my entire life than I am with you."

Not only does this stun the boy, it confounds me as well. A sentiment like that exposes my humanity in a way that makes me feel vulnerable to attack. I somehow feel diminished by revealing such a personal thing, that I am in some way less effective than I was.

"Except Alfred?" The boy asks. I shake my head.

"Closer than anyone in the whole world, Dick." Suddenly my hand is resting on his shoulder and squeezing it gently. The words the boy wants to hear come without coaxing and a moment later, we are no longer strangers. "I love you, Dick." There is no hugging or crying to be found in the car in the aftermath of such a statement. The boy smiles in gratitude and I sense a fraying connection has been mended between us. Nothing more is said as we drive home.


	6. Chapter 6

**Intimacy**

Luciano Fognini's arraignment was successful. Despite the overwhelming calibre of his defence team, the notorious crime boss was indicted on all counts. The trial begins next week. I cannot help my satisfaction in such an outcome. Almost nine months of work have finally paid dividends for me and of course Jim Gordon. The future of his major crimes unit now seems assured. He can relax, safe in the knowledge he has finally salvaged the reputation of the GCPD, as can I. The trial itself will no doubt create its own problems, but we will contend with them later. Right now, we can allow ourselves some respite. I am in the cave. The boy and I returned from patrol some six hours ago and he is now asleep. I will afford myself the same luxury once my work is complete. There is still much to be done.

Derrick Combs' testimony against Fognini in exchange for a prison transfer was unfortunate. Getting him to talk without a deal however, would have been impossible...through conventional means anyway. This time, I kept my emotions in check. He will testify on the stand next week. Meanwhile, I am sure attempts by Fognini's associates to silence him will be made. Combs is currently locked down in a maximum security facility with round-the-clock supervision and security. Jim insisted on such measures and I agree. Although we have a plethora of circumstantial evidence to corroborate Combs' testimony, we need the man to hold it all together. He is, without question, the star witness for the prosecution. To that end, I have been monitoring the facility where Combs is being held for five days. So far, there has been no unusual activity or unexplained personnel changes. Everything is running smoothly.

The raid in The Narrows and the huge find uncovered there has greatly boosted the chances of a conviction. Despite Fognini never going near his own merchandise, we have been able to trace the transport of it. The only other places it has been are properties owned by Fognini's real-estate company. With Mark Allen, the company's senior development manager, exposed as Derrick Combs, it only casts Fognini in a darker light. It is highly unlikely he will emerge from this with any kind of reputation intact. For that, I am truly thankful. The idea of such a loathsome individual setting up shop in some other city is something I try not to think about. There will be no mistakes.

In the cave, I have been double-checking all evidence related to this case in finite detail. Gordon has already done the same thing, but it does not hurt to have a second opinion. Or a third. I will not leave anything to chance on this case. Everything will be air-tight and invulnerable to harsh scrutiny. I will make certain of that. Combs' written confession has no omissions I am aware of. He has included an extensive amount of detail unlikely to be found elsewhere. He is holding up his end of the bargain nicely. I would still like to cave his face in though.

My analysis of fibre samples found at Combs' apartment is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.

"You're up awfully late, aren't you Alfred?" I say without bothering to turn round. The reply is not as expected.

"Alfie's busy catching some Zs, Bruce." The voice is that of a child, one that is amused by my error. I turn to find Dick stood by the steps. He is dressed in his pyjamas. They are damp as is his hair. The look in his eyes is one of restlessness and exhaustion, a sign of insomnia. I glance at my watch: 0347. The boy is not sleeping well.

"Having trouble sleeping?" I ask. Dick nods, brushing limp hair out of his eyes.

"A lot of nightmares. Not all of them happen when I'm asleep." The boy's tone tells me the images he has been seeing are disturbing. He is not just anxious; the boy is afraid. I am far from unsympathetic to his plight. My own mental torment is something I have learned to control. I imagine the experience is completely different to Dick. As a child, he lacks the mental development to independently deal with his traumas. Dr. Leslie Tompkins has helped him enormously, but her knowledge of psychology can only do so much. Alfred, too, has been invaluable in assisting the boy handle the emotional stresses he faces. My own involvement is limited. Due to my mental conditioning I am unable to interact with Dick on such a personal level and feel uncomfortable trying. Now, witnessing the immediate effects of his night terrors, I must try harder.

"Would you like me to fetch you something to help you sleep?"

"Alfred's already given me some stuff. I don't think I should have anymore." Dick observes the digital clock on the computer screen. "How come you're not in bed yet? We finished patrol at like ten."

"I was conducting research for the trial. It requires extensive reading." The boy raises an eyebrow. Even now, two years after coming to the manor, he still finds my lack of rest surprising. Dick wanders over and I notice he is shivering slightly. "It's probably best you change into dry pyjamas, Dick. Alfred would hate it if you caught a cold." The boy offers me a nod and a mutter of agreement.

"Can you come with me?" When he says this, Dick does not look me in the eye. He is embarrassed by his behaviour. He has no reason to be and I will not draw undue attention to it.

"Of course." I tell him, getting to my feet. My hand is on his shoulder as we climb the steps. I am aware of the need for physical comfort in such circumstances; words need not be spoken. We enter the library, cross the hall and head up the main staircase. I wait outside whilst the boy changes. He is brief and I am let in only minutes later.

Dick's room is a mess. There are videogames and DVDs strewn all over the floor. Dirty workout gear and other clothes are to be found hanging from chairs and window sills. His large television is on with nothing but a harsh blue light covering the screen. Both his bed and his bed sheets are dishevelled and wet. It does not take a great deal of reasoning to arrive at a conclusion. The boy has made every effort to sleep. He has also made every effort to distract his mind from unwelcome thoughts. All have ended in failure and so, he has reached out to me. He looks at me in shame.

"This really isn't a cry for attention, Bruce. I think I've really got problems." His voice tries to sound matter-of-fact and detached, as mine would be if our positions were reversed. He sounds terrified instead. I nod in agreement. No, of course this is not a cry for attention. The boy is not well. I need to find him suitable help and I will. For now, I shall deal with the current situation as best I can.

"Do you know where Alfred keeps fresh bed linen?" I ask. Dick shakes his head. I make a mental note to ask the old man tomorrow. I am gone for a moment and then back with unsoiled sheets appropriated from a guest room. The boy stands out of the way as I make the bed. I surprise myself with my competency; my mother's home-making lessons are deep-rooted indeed. As Dick gets back into his bed, I disappear briefly again. I return from the library with something from my own childhood. On rainy days and stormy nights, my mother would read me this book. The feelings of security her voice gave me are always a source of pleasant memories. I am hoping my story-telling will have a similar effect on the boy.

When he sees the copy of Alice in Wonderland in my hand Dick smiles. I sit on the bed beside him. His response is to rest his head against my side. When I am certain he is comfortable, I begin.

"Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do..."

I take great pleasure in reading a story that stirs such fond memories of my childhood. It is compounded by the fact I am using Alice's adventures to content another child, especially one so important to me. My use of voices greatly amuses Dick. When I ask him if I should refrain, he only remarks how amazing my voices are. I continue. Although it is slow, the boy is drifting off. By the end of Pig and Pepper, his eyes are closed and I can hear soft breathing. I remain with him for another half-hour to ensure he is sleeping properly before leaving him to rest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Late**

**Author's Note: I have written this because I wanted to and to possibly start another story arc. Whether I do so or not remains to be seen. Enjoy.**

Fognini business matters are concluded, indefinitely. The man is behind bars in Blackgate without the possibility of parole occurring for a minimum of twenty-five years. All other major players in his operations, including Derrick Combs, are also under firm lock and key. The GCPD are now focusing on other matters in the city as am I. Dick's presence in the Fognini case proved to be almost a tragic error and I have noticed that the boy is also stressed from our current workload. He, after all, has a school and rich social life to contend with alongside his duties as Robin and such large demands are unfair. It is for these reasons I have been conducting recent activities alone. Although he was quick to contest my decision, I know he will secretly be relieved for the break and will benefit from being able to enjoy himself with friends. Since I do not require prolonged periods away from this life, I press on with my investigations.

It is two a.m. I am presently engaged in combat with nineteen assailants deep in The Narrows' illegal gambling den network. They dare not attack as one body lest I slip out from their grasp in the confusion and so are barring all conceivable exits from the establishment whilst a slack handful try their luck at _my_ table. I identify old injuries to arms, shoulders and knees by a study of their movements when coming to strike me. Two of them have had reconstructive surgery on their shoulders in the last eight months whilst another three have a weak knee or elbow to focus on. Taking these factors into account, I attack their vulnerable points in succession, felling them all with little trouble. This reels in the others from the exits, hoping to catch me whilst distracted. It is a decent strategy, one that can be employed to high effect, but is easily countered. Since I can split my concentration in a minimum of two directions, I peripherally spot the incoming haymaker, duck and sweep the supporting leg and then finish with a quick knee.

After stringing together two separate sequences of eight uninterrupted moves, I have incapacitated twelve of them. This leaves me with three opponents to surmount. They are already sweating profusely and their breathing is noticeably laboured. I am yet to break sweat. I do not even touch them, allowing three simultaneously thrown batarangs to end their night from a safe distance. As I scour the room for forensic evidence to illegal gambling profits and the individuals presently inhabiting its floor, I cannot help but think of the boy. Despite the result being inevitably the same, I find myself missing the teenager on recent patrols. Everything seems so much darker without his cheerful disposition to light it. Regardless of personal preference, I must locate this evidence before these degenerates can hide it.

Curiously, I identify the relevant ledgers almost immediately. There is barely any effort to conceal them and I am instantly suspicious of why. After further examination of the ledgers and the information within, I have no basis for my doubts, but I am still suspicious. In any case, I am now in possession of the information Gordon and his men need to properly stem the flow of illicit gambling in this district. I radio GCPD to my location and proceed to adequately restrain those suspects lying prone on the floor to prevent escape. Three patrol cars and a prisoner escort vehicle arrive at the establishment in eight minutes. It is only one minute and thirty-four seconds off their best response time for this area. Jim and I talk briefly. I hand over the ledgers to him personally, express interest in three other possible sites for gambling dens, the locations of which I pass onto him, and then make my exit.

I arrive back at the cave shortly before three a.m. I turn the car around for dusk tomorrow evening, replace my suit and ancillaries in the armoury, set up surveillance monitoring for the gambling sites in The Narrows and proceed upstairs to the house.

As expected at this hour, it is dark in the house. No doubt Alfred and Dick have long since retired to bed as I climb the main staircase. If I recall correctly, the boy had some kind of date with a girl in his chemistry class, a Sarah Brinkley I believe. I imagine the old man will have ferried Dick to the movie theatre or the ice-rink, two of the boy's favourite spots for both entertaining and showboating to young ladies. I trust Alfred will furnish me with a full account of the evening tomorrow morning at breakfast. Dick does not wish to discuss such matters with me, a typical attitude of teenagers with their fathers I am told. I do hope he enjoyed himself. Perhaps I shall check in on him on my way to the bedroom. I pause outside his door and consider the matter carefully. I choose to open the door.

His bed is empty. I scan the room and find no sign of him. I dismiss all usual parental fears immediately. Dick has NOT been kidnapped. Dick has NOT run away. Dick would NOT still be out at this time; Alfred would not allow it under any circumstances. I consider the alternatives, eliminating those that are not credible. My conclusion leads me to believe that the boy is awake and restless somewhere in the house. Since he is not in the cave, the library, his room, the lounge, the kitchen or the gymnasium, I have a strong idea of his whereabouts. I go to my room, open the door and find him leafing through my mother's copy of _Alice through the Looking Glass_. He is in his pyjamas, some green pinstripe design I consider hideous, and sprawled on his stomach. Although he is clearly reading the book, Dick looks wholly disinterested in the text. He notices my arrival and looks up instantly. The boy smiles showcasing perfectly straight, white teeth. It is a small wonder after the number of hits he has taken to his jaw that his teeth are so pristine.

"Hi. How long have you been back?" He inquires whilst hauling himself to a seated position on the edge of the bed.

"Twenty minutes. How long have you been in here?"

"Something like four hours. I couldn't sleep." I sit down beside him.

"I do hope it was nothing to do with your date this evening. That went well I trust?" He grins sheepishly at the very mention of the word 'date' and shrugs his shoulders.

"It went okay. It's nothing to do with that." I am not totally ignorant of people's feelings towards me. I am lucidly aware of Dick's attachment to me as a parent, rather than a superhero. This sort of situation is nothing new.

"I am more than capable of taking care of myself on patrol, Dick. You don't ever have to worry about me when I choose to conduct missions alone."

"I know that. If I can look after myself on the streets alone, then the guy who taught me everything I know is more than able to do it too." He turns to look into my eyes, "But it doesn't stop me worrying about you. Truth is, when you go away for a long time, I get nervous and then I get scared. And I can't help it." In spite of the boy maintaining a smile throughout this confession, I can hear the sincerity in his voice and his own incredulity at his behaviour to my absences. I understand; Dick is only thirteen after all. Given time, he will eventually grow out of these childish fears.

"Your behaviour is understandable, Dick. We live in a dangerous world and the chances of something going wrong in my chosen 'profession' are very high. However, the probability of conducting a patrol ending in fatal injuries is remote to say the least. Therefore, staying up all night waiting for me to return is unhealthy and largely detrimental to your development. Perhaps it might be wise to invest in some form of sleeping pill to assist you."

"Or the cheaper alternative is to just fill me in on your suspicions." Dick responds, sliding himself over to the far side of the bed and lying down. "I can just tell something on patrol didn't agree with you. You've got that frown on your face, the one that can only mean things were TOO easy tonight. So let's talk about it." The boy gestures for me to lie down alongside him. Since I am still unsettled by the facile nature of tonight's successes, I oblige him and lie down.

"I consider this bad parenting." I inform him whilst cupping my hands together and resting them on my stomach. Dick copies the action. The boy shrugs.

"Whatever you wanna call it, I'm enjoying it just the same. So what's eating you, big guy?"

"The Narrows illegal gambling operation; locating proof of profits and transactions taking place was far too easy. Ledgers were out in plain sight, implicating several notorious career criminals and gangs. They named names, dates and amounts all with perfect clarity. Surely you can see my problem accepting such an open solution?" I look over to see Dick considering what I have just told him. While he thinks in such a reclined position, I notice the boy knocks his feet together and taps his thumbs against his stomach. Even for a child, he is wonderfully animated. Finally, he shrugs and offers a response.

"Not everyone's like Fognini. Most criminals in this city don't factor you in when hatching their stupid schemes." He grins at me, "Not everyone can play chess. Some people only manage to master snakes and ladders. Maybe you should appreciate that. I mean, for every Luciano Fognini, there's a couple of dozen common thugs, guys with brains about as sharp as a plastic knife. Personally, I think you've had too many geniuses after you, it's made you more than a little paranoid." I understand what the boy is implying immediately; just because I am allegedly elite, it does not mean that everybody else is elite too. Dick is trying to make me realize that sometimes situations are simple because those behind them cannot engineer anything more complicated. It is a salient point, one that fits the particular profile of Gotham's criminal underworld. I nod in agreement.

"Perhaps you are right."

"You hate these pyjamas, don't you?"

"They are just awful. Why do you wear them?"

"Alfie bought them for me. I don't want to hurt his feelings. Isn't that why you've still got those butt-ugly orange and blue PJs from a few years back? You look like a circus clown when you wear them." I smile at him.

"I take it you're not a fan of clowns, Dick?"

"Not when you're dressed like one. I'd drop a load in my pants if you came to my birthday party as a clown what with being unbelievably scary and such." The boy's way of putting across his point leaves little to the imagination if any at all. I sigh.

"Well, as exciting an experience as that may be, I'm not going to be changing professions in the near future, Dick."

"When can I go back on patrol with you? It feels like it's been forever already!" Dick asks puffing out his cheeks in frustration. I am quick to correct him.

"It's been four days, Dick. Is normality really that unbearable?"

"No, it's fine. I just miss hanging out with you. You know we spend the most time together in a day on patrol; I've barely seen you at all recently." This is another exaggeration, one I am again quick to resolve.

"I come to dinner every evening with you and Alfred. And you can call me at any time of the day when I am at work." He rolls his eyes at my last remark and seems to believe I have misread him.

"I'm not THAT needy! I just don't like being apart when you're out doing cool stuff in the city and I'm sat in my room doing homework." The boy believes he is missing out when it could not be further from the truth; the true nature of this work is monotonous repetition of the same events every night. I find leads, I trace illicit and criminal activities, I encounter resistance and I negate that resistance. I then work with Jim Gordon and the GCPD to formally close down illegal businesses and the sources of these unwanted activities and crimes. I cycle through these processes roughly three times a week and more than one hundred and fifty times a year without other distractions like The Joker or Penguin. While there are certain thrills with this work, it is still just a job like any other.

"Dick, you need time away from being Robin." I say to irritate him further.

"Why? You don't stop being Batman even when you eat; why should I stop being Robin?"

"Because you're a child and it is not healthy for you to be involved in that world without regular breaks. It will hurt you. I do not wish to hurt you any more than is necessary. You understand, don't you? " It is important he understands this. I need him to understand his limitations because of his age. It is not intended to be patronising, merely factual. The boy is extremely capable, but he is still a child. He relents with a short sigh.

"Yeah, I understand, big guy. So how long until my 'break' is over?"

"Another week." He offers me one of his best smiles before trying his luck.

"How about three more days?"

"You've got another week, Dick. Now please go to bed. It's very late."

"Fine. See you in the morning?" He says getting off the bed. I nod.

"In the morning, Dick."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: I will continue my flagship story because of the high level of praise it has received and because I want to hear more ;) Bruce shows his soft side as Gotham crumbles around him. Enjoy.**

**Hearts**

I find recent patrols unsettling. Although city officials speak of a significant drop in crime statistics, I struggle to see the difference. The Fognini Empire and all associated operations, criminal or otherwise, have been curtailed...permanently. The loss of such a prominent figurehead in Gotham's illicit activities has created something of a power vacuum amongst the lower orders. Gang turf wars are fast becoming a daily occurrence and not just limited to the night. GCPD are managing to contain the problem in daylight hours, but the level of violence is escalating. During the past three months, Gordon has attended the funerals of five fellow policemen. At night, under cover of darkness, the ugly side of the city is chaotic. Fifteen gangland degenerates have met their end in The Narrows in the last six weeks alone. At present, I am attempting to formulate some kind of strategy.

There is no central agency to focus attacks on, no master criminal to analyse. It presents many problems. The monstrous anarchy in Gotham is like a hydra with innumerable heads; with which head does one start and where do I finish? Lately Robin and I have been targeting what little remains of the narcotic supplies in both The Narrows and Gotham Harbour. Our minor successes seem immaterial when the remainder of the city hangs on the edge of ruin. I am fortunate to have the boy; he keeps my spirits up when I feel myself slipping into despair. I believe the next logical 'industry' to target is the illegal arms trading taking place in the Upper East Side. Perhaps by cutting off the supply of firearms, Gordon and I will be able to stem the bloodshed. I still have doubts. However plausible the plan, I am unable to ward off a sense of futility in such efforts. It does not bode well.

I am at work almost immediately after finishing patrol duties. As I take my position in the command chair, a position I will no doubt occupy for the next few hours, the boy wanders over. I have dispensed with the cowl completely by the time he draws up at my side. We say nothing. We do not even look at each other. He removes his mask so neither of us can hide behind them. I know what will happen next. A moment later, Dick has laid his head against my shoulder. My arm reaches up and begins to stroke his hair. The movement is not awkward .This gesture of affection does not require much effort from either of us, but the comforting effect it generates is astounding. I feel calm when we are together like this and it is readily apparent the boy feels the same. Before the dawn comes and before the night ends, for this one brief instance, we are at peace.

Long minutes pass before Dick finally decides he has had enough of my attentions. He lifts his head and yawns.

"I trust you'll be going off to bed now, Dick?" I say looking from the screen to the youth at my side. While stroking his hair with one hand, I have still been able to type with the other and make some headway. The boy offers me one of his best smiles, the sort he reserves only for moments of real importance, and nods.

"Yeah, I am hanging out my ass here. Try to get some sleep yourself, okay big guy?" Dick replies, patting me amicably on the shoulder when turning to leave. I wait until he is halfway up the stairs before turning to look at him. I am truly fortunate to have a boy such as him in my company. His patience and energetic nature are rare qualities in any people, let alone a child of fourteen. I allow myself a small smile before returning to my work.

"Bruce?"

I turn my head from the screen to find the boy stood at the base of the stairs. He is wearing his pyjamas. I glance at the digital clock on the screen. It is eight-thirty a.m. I have been working without pause for the last eight hours. I find it therefore astonishing that I still have yet to theorize a viable solution to the problem. I believe my only progress in all this time has been identifying four groups of arms dealers and a potential meeting place in the Upper East Side for illicit transactions. I am disappointed.

"Good morning, Dick. Did you sleep well?"

"Did you sleep at all?"

Dick is concerned for my health. It is touching, but unnecessary; I have survived more than seventy hours without sleep several times before. A brief thirty-six hour period without rest is, by my own standards, rather tame. I shake my head. "No, unfortunately not." I get to my feet, finding my entire body is stiff from lack of use. The boy notes this soreness and shrugs.

"At least you're not wearing your suit. When did you change?"

I cannot recall changing my attire. I am already dressed for work at Wayne Enterprises, minus my suit jacket and tie. Somehow I have also found sufficient time to shave, style my hair and apply cologne. It would appear my ability to multi-task has reached high-enough levels to carry out actions subconsciously. It is both impressive and disconcerting at the same time. Regarding Dick's current state of dress prompts me to review the time again, using my wristwatch now I am aware of its existence.

"Shouldn't you be arriving at school now?" I ask him.

"It's been cancelled for the rest of the week."

"For what purpose?"

"The school principal was killed last night, cross-fire between two rival factions."

I must be somewhat fatigued. I have only now picked up on the boy's dejected body language and bitter expression. His tone is mostly empty, but holds some remnants of sorrow. I am aware he liked his school principal, a Mr. Daniel Kane. When he first began back at middle school, following the conclusion of business with Harvey Dent, Kane was willing to talk to him. Dick was, for a time, very depressed. Many of his other teachers did not feel comfortable approaching Dick in such a condition, but Kane was. He helped brighten the boy's outlook again. I remember I thanked him personally for his kindness with a charitable donation to his youth club program. His death is unfortunate. It is also needless. We must get the present situation in Gotham under firm control and we must do it soon. At this moment though, such actions can wait; Dick is upset.

"Shall we go upstairs and talk?" I say, already advancing towards him. Although the boy is accustomed to sealing his emotions away in this house and will function as normal in spite of any burgeoning pain or despair, he nods immediately. He would like some comfort. I put my hand on his shoulder and guide him upstairs. When we reach the library, Alfred is already stood with a tray of English tea. Clearly the old man answered the telephone from the school and had the unwelcomed task of informing Dick. I am certain he will also be responsible for directing the boy to me; Dick will have wanted to simply go back to his room and brood in silence. Alfred refuses to let the boy slowly turn into me; I am glad for his intervention.

"Would you like some peanut-butter on toast, Master Dick?" The old man offers with a comforting smile. Dick shakes his head. Alfred and I exchange glances in which I mutely inform him I would like some breakfast whilst communicating my intentions to talk with the boy. Alfred has known me since I was an infant and I, likewise, have known him since birth; before Dick's arrival we barely needed to speak at all such was our understanding of one another.

"I shall return shortly. Sirs."

Once Alfred has left the room, leaving the tray atop the window seat, Dick and I sit in the armchairs either side of it. I assume the responsibility for pouring the tea and give the boy his cup first. He enjoys sweet tea. To that end, I have added his customary three lumps of sugar and a small sampling of honey. I consider such additions somewhat excessive, but it keeps him happy. My cup contains only tea. I must admit, I do not care for tea very much. Once I am sure Dick is relaxed, I begin.

"So, do you wish to attend the funeral?"

"I don't know."

"It's fine. There is no need to make plans at this stage. What would you like to do for the remainder of the week?"

"I don't know."

"How's your tea?"

"It's good. You can actually make decent tea now." The boy gives me a half-hearted smile and sips his tea again. I smile back.

"It's all going to be alright, Dick." As soon as I finish articulating that thought, the boy understands I am not just talking about his grief; I am talking about everything, the city, the crime, the horror, everything. He leans forward.

"How can you say that? You don't know what's going to happen tomorrow."

"I won't let this city fall into ruin."

"But what if you do? What if there's no way to stop the power vacuum in the city? What if we fail to stop crime from overrunning Gotham?" I reach over and place my hand over his. I squeeze his hand.

"We won't fail. There is a solution to this problem. People like Daniel Kane will not die for nothing anymore. We WILL stop this. I promise you." There is something about the boy's doubts that makes me so much more resolute in the face of adversity. Last night, I was not confident of winning this war. Now, at this moment, seeing the despair in Dick's eyes, I am sure we will win. Because I cannot afford to disappoint this child. Because I want to see him smile again. I will make sure we defeat this enemy, because Dick deserves some good fortune given what he has endured in recent months. I take my hand back and watch the boy beam at me for my efforts.

"Yeah, I guess I was kind of being a little dramatic just now. You definitely think we can stop it?" He asks suddenly sounding hopeful of a resolution. It is a startling change in his demeanour from only a few moments ago. I suppose he just needed some reassurance to steady himself. It is remarkable he can alter his outlook with so little persuasion but I should not be surprised. I nod my head.

"I would not say otherwise if I did not believe in what I just told you. However I have come to realise I cannot find the solution on my own. If you felt up to the challenge, I would appreciate your assistance on the matter." Dick looks keen about my invitation but is noticeably hesitant in responding. He almost sounds embarrassed in giving his answer.

"I don't know Bruce. I mean, your I.Q. is like a zillion or something and you just worked for eight hours straight on the same problem and came up with zilch; what do you expect me to give you that you haven't already tried? I'm just a kid." The boy is depressed and saddened by the unfortunate news this morning and feels insignificant despite our recent efforts to maintain order. It is likely he somehow feels responsible for Mr Kane's death because of our dealings with the gangs. We cannot put them all away and we have always accepted that. Losing someone close to him has made that acceptable casualties logic hard to swallow. It is understandable and I do not feel slighted by his lack of faith. Times are difficult, but we will prevail. I gift him a smile.

"You lend me a fresh perspective on the matter Dick, something I am sorely lacking at present. And I am somewhat surprised you would stick such a bland label on your identity when you told me only the other week you were the 'greatest crime fighter's partner of all time'." Dick cannot help but grin at my last sentence and almost laughs when recalling it.

"God I've got a big mouth."

"And I'd like to hear more of it. I know it is hard losing a man as kind and selfless as Mr Kane, but I also know the best way to deal with bereavement, particularly when it is fresh, is to keep busy." The boy frowns at me.

"Don't you need sleep right now?"

"Do you need me right now or not?"

"I don't want to appear like I'm selfish." His concern for my health is touching yet again as is his apparent selflessness, but again it is unnecessary; my affections for this boy transcend any physical fatigue or inconvenient time. I am here for him because he wants me to be here for him; he's just too proud to say it out loud. I tell him as much.

"You have earned the right to be selfish from time to time. If you need me right now, sleep can wait."

There is a short silence. Dick opens his mouth to say something back, but decides against it and instead gets to his feet and crosses the short space between us until he is stood directly in front of me. He opens his mouth again and almost articulates the word 'thank' before again returning to quiet. Then he leans in and wraps his arms round my neck and hugs me without letting his feet leave the floor. It is far more powerful in its delivery than words could ever hope to be. He does not try to speak again and only squeezes me tighter to show he considers me to be as important to him as he is to me, especially in such circumstances. I reciprocate his affections immediately. I briefly ruffle his hair and then he releases me from his grip, understanding from experience that he requires little else to keep himself positive in the face of adversity. He smiles and nods his head.

"Okay, count me in, but after a couple of hours if we're not getting anywhere, you have to sleep for at least four hours. Deal?" I nod my head in agreement; it is logical enough.

"Deal."

"Okay then, let's start at the beginning again…"


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Afghanistan deployment is nearly at an end. This is somewhat hastily written but I believe it to be of a high enough quality for release. I apologize for my extended absence. I have been busy.**

**Hearts 2**

In Greek mythology, the Lernaean Hydra beast was finally slain by Heracles as the second of his twelve labours. Although it was said that each time one of the Hydra's heads was cut, three would grow in its place, Heracles overcame this by using fire to cauterize the stump and thus prevent the regrowth. Despite its last head being immortal, Heracles dealt with this by first decapitating the head and then trapping it beneath heavy rock from which it could not escape. In tackling the surge in Gotham's criminal activities since Fognini's incarceration, I have adopted a similar strategy.

I start by targeting a single facet of crime in the city. Once it has been arrested or slowed, I cauterize it by getting Gordon to set up dedicated units in the freed areas. These units, ranging in size from twelve to thirty law enforcement personnel, then police a small pocket of the city, no more than ten or twelve square blocks with smaller forces and no larger than twenty-five square blocks with larger units. The key aspect of this idea that allows it to work effectively and efficiently is how all these areas intersect. As long as there are no clear gaps between the areas, criminals cannot operate outside the law. To aid the GCPD with this scheme, Wayne Enterprises is financing the venture as part of a community outreach program. We not only supply them with vital equipment such as riot gear, vehicles and fortifiable buildings to work from, but also sufficient surveillance and computer equipment to identify and respond to criminal activity as and when it happens.

This strategy is extensive and costly, but it is paying dividends. In the nine weeks following Daniel Kane's death, we have taken back the Narrows, Gotham Docks and the Bowery from criminal control. Defences are holding and the degenerates of this city are losing their appetite for confrontation with every failure. I already know they will be back though. Their resurgence is inevitable. Bruce Wayne and Wayne Enterprises cannot continue to finance these control measures indefinitely and the bottom-feeders know it all too well. So this measure is only a temporary solution to hold back the tide until I can devise a permanent solution.

It is two-thirty A.M. I am returning from patrols in the more affluent areas of the city having concluded criminals will migrate to less stringently policed areas of Gotham to conduct their business. Fortunately, they are not familiar with this part of the cityscape and its abundance of surveillance technology. They trip every alarm and alert every homeowner in the area with their clumsiness. Foiling them is proving to be child's play…for now. Adaptation is the hallmark of Gotham's criminal population. Given a few more weeks, they will surmount these early setbacks. I must devise a solution soon or suffer exhaustion in trying to slay crime's immortal head.

Upon reaching the cave, I find Dick slouched in my command chair and idly scrolling through media reports on Luciano Fognini's unmasking as head of the largest criminal empire in Gotham. He is still dressed in his school clothes, a French shirt, a red sweater vest and blue jeans, despite the late hour and the fact it is Friday morning. The boy chose to attend Kane's funeral in the end. Alfred accompanied him and later commented on his maturity and admirable conduct. Since then, Dick has been assisting me as best he can with maintaining order and finding an answer to our problem. We found and arrested the men responsible for killing Kane five weeks ago. They were prosecuted accordingly and are now awaiting trial in Gotham County Jail. His behavior when apprehending them was admirable too. He kept his emotions in check and was always in control. I pull back my cowl as I approach him.

"You should be in bed." I tell him whilst pulling off my gloves and gauntlets. Dick shrugs his shoulders.

"Alfie said the same thing an hour ago."

"And what did you say?" I ask standing to his immediate left. Our eyes meet.

"I'm working on something big." He replies to peak my curiosity. I gesture at the screen.

"Something to do with Fognini I take it?"

"When we put him away, he didn't just leave a void. He also left a blueprint." I am intrigued by what he is suggesting. He is positing that Fognini is a perfect model for any aspiring crime boss who wishes to monopolize a city's criminal infrastructure. His green eyes briefly offer disappointment.

"You're not even going to ask me what I mean, are you? You already know." He says with a sigh. I often sense the boy is frustrated with my intellect's ability to interpret meaning without any significant background. It means he does not get to display his working and his efforts with lengthy explanations as I typically deduce everything from his first few sentences. Although I do not say anything to interrupt him when he is speaking, Dick has somehow identified an expression on my face that signals when I fully grasp everything he is saying. When he sees this, he instantly stops talking and we act. I crouch down beside him.

"I am going to ask you what you mean, Dick. Please tell me your idea." I say with a small smile I hope is encouraging. His face lights up with an enormous grin. I have succeeded. He nods.

"Okay then." He looks back at the screen, "Gotham's criminals are like any other part of society: without a centralized leadership, they go nuts. They need a figurehead like the police need Commissioner Gordon or city hall needs the Mayor. For years, Fognini was that figurehead and gave them all order. Now with him gone, they've lost their order. I figure that all they need to get back into line is another figurehead to take Fognini's place. Then everything will calm down again because they'll have someone to answer to if they cause trouble." He looks over at me. "I thought Matches Malone could be that figurehead."

Dick's reasoning is sound enough as is his research. But Malone is the wrong fit for such a lofty position. I agree with him that I should adopt some kind of persona to unite all warring factions, but it must be more credible. I nod in appreciation.

"It is a viable solution. However, Matches is not quite up to such a task. I believe I will have to fabricate a new identity for this plan to have any chance of success."

"Great, I'll help." Dick says already pulling up the identikit software program and criminal database. I put my hand on his forearm to stop him pressing any more keys.

"You will go to bed. You have school in six hours." The boy regards me in a mixture of disbelief and indignation.

"But it's my idea. I want to help. Please can't I just miss one day of school?"

"Your formal education takes precedence over any extra-curricular activities. We have always said as much. I doubt I will have created an entire crime boss by this evening. You can help then." Dick shakes his head. I am at a loss to explain his unruly behavior. He is not like other boys his age and is not prone to acting out. His green eyes bore into mine as if trying to read my soul.

"How long do you think you've been gone, Bruce?"

"I don't quite understand."

"Your patrol tonight: how long have you been out?" He asks. I consider the question briefly.

"Perhaps eight or nine hours." The boy adopts a sad smile.

"That's what I thought. You literally have no idea how much time passes when you're under the cowl." He gestures to the digital clock display at the top left corner of the screen. "According to that, which is apparently the most accurate clock in the universe, you've been out on patrol for at least forty-nine hours. We last had a meal together on Tuesday evening. It was also when I last spoke to you as Bruce. All your radio checks and database requests have been as Batman since then. Did you even notice?" I must admit I did not observe such a prolonged passage of time go by. During daylight hours I sequestered myself in my safe houses to monitor the strength of the GCPD in their respective areas. I do not believe I have eaten or slept since Tuesday but feel neither tired nor hungry. I would surmise that my recent work with Gordon and the GCPD units has consumed me whole to the point I am oblivious to anything outside that task. I frown at the boy: he looks angry with me.

"I apologize Dick but I fail to see what my absence has to do with your school attendance." Dick rolls his eyes.

"Um, how about I miss you? Does that make it any clearer?"

"I often disappear for up to seventy-two hours when conducting an intensive operation. You have never complained before."

"You tell us when you're going to do that so we're prepared. The last few weeks, you've literally just gone without a word. It worries the hell out of Alfie and me. I've been out looking for you four times in the last fourteen days because I thought you might be in trouble. I really think you might be getting lost in this criminal power struggle." He informs me with more than a little emotion towards the latter part of his fears. He is right of course: my obsessions are beginning to swallow me yet again as they did when I began my mission. It is difficult sometimes to remember my responsibilities to this city are immaterial to the boy before me. I am supposed to be his guardian and I am supposed to be there for him. I am absent when he is sick or injured or upset because of my mission, something Alfred frequently chides me for but I often fail to act upon. I squeeze his forearm.

"I forget too often I know." I begin, "I neglect you too often as well. You're right: you have done some impressive work whilst I have been indisposed and it is only right you should participate further. You can miss school this once and I will curtail my solo operations too. In future, you will accompany me as my timekeeper." I manage to get a smile of relief and satisfaction from my companion who nods in agreement at the new arrangement.

"You could just set an alarm." He suggests as I release his arm and stand up.

"I think I would prefer you shouting in my ear instead. It is less…ignorable."

It is four-thirty-nine A.M. Dick and I have been constructing my new identity for almost two hours. I have dispensed with my suit in favor of my pajamas and dressing gown. The boy is also now dressed in his nightwear, a Gotham Knights T-shirt and pair of loose gym shorts, as we insert rap sheets into police databases and biographical histories into more high-ranking systems. Criminals will look into my new persona with a scrutiny that exceeds all others. They are suspicious of anybody they do not know and rightly so. My identity must therefore be watertight and unbreakable. Soon enough, the life of Michael Anthony Andolucci, A.K.A Tony Sicily, will be everywhere one might look. After we have amended all biographical data, we begin work on his appearance.

By the time it nears six in the morning, we have reached an agreement on age, weight and hair color. We decide Tony should be in his mid to late forties, be overweight by ten to fifteen pounds and have greying hair. We however cannot agree on facial hair. Dick wants a goatee whereas I want a moustache only. I suggest a beard as a compromise only for the boy to refuse it, claiming it to be 'too Santa Claus'. I concede to his point by six A.M. By six fifty-three A.M. Dick is fast asleep in his chair under a pile of blankets. At close to seven-thirty, I decide to retire to bed for the foreseeable future. The creation process is almost in its final stages and I am satisfied with our progress thus far. I carefully pick the boy up and carry him up to the house.

"You have managed to spend some 'quality time' with him have you, Sir?" Alfred inquires after meeting me in the parlor. The old man's tenor is one of subtle irritation. He is angry with my absences too.

"We have reached an understanding, Alfred. I am no longer allowed to go out on patrols solo anymore." I explain whilst adjusting my grip on Dick's back. I feel his cheek rub against my neck in reply.

"Surely a simple stopwatch would be more prudent, Master Bruce."

"I apologize old friend. I promise it will not happen again."

"Oh it will happen again, Sir, of that I have no doubt. But I suppose we are all safe for the foreseeable future. Shall I call Mr. Fox and inform him you are still busy recovering from your hangover?" I am always grateful for Alfred's alibis: they are remarkably put together.

"Remind me, what party was I at?"

"The Gotham Yacht Owners Club party, Sir. It was on Tuesday."

"And there are witnesses to place me there?"

"At least a dozen, Sir."

"And it was a really serious party was it, Alfred?"

"Many people are still in drunken comas as a result of its debauchery, Sir."

"In that case I shall see you for lunch."

"And Master Dick?"

"Perhaps early afternoon would be best for him."

"What should I tell his school?"

"Tell them he's got insomnia." I say with a brief smile. The old man smiles too.

"Very good, Sir. Pleasant dreams."

"Goodnight."


End file.
